


A Winter's Tale

by Sir_Thopas



Series: In Search of a Queen [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Cinderella (1950), Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate History, Colonial America, Colonialism, F/M, Fantasy, Father Rale's War, French Revolution, Gothic, Jacobite Risings, Past Character Death, Queen Anne's War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The House of Bourbon has ruled France for two hundred years, yet there is a deadly curse that plagues its members. Disease and death follow them like old friends, black magic envelopes them like a burial shroud, and there are whispers, dark whispers, of princes and kings and dukes transforming into hideous beasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

[ ](http://imgur.com/M346onE)

_Preface_

For those of you who enjoyed my "Letters to a Loved One" series, this story is a reworking of those earlier fanfics. When I started writing the first fanfic (also titled _A Winter's Tale_ ) I had decided that I wanted to write it as a collection of letters. I am an amateur historian myself, and much of my time is spent digging through old letters. I always enjoyed trying to recreate the whole story when I had only bits and pieces to work with. When dealing with letters, you often only have one half of the story. The replies that the other correspondent may have sent have long disappeared. Some of the letters may be missing, sometimes they refer only obliquely to events that were too horrible or painful to talk about openly. I wanted to recreate that ambiguity, but, unfortunately, I encountered many problems. I wanted this series to be as historically correct as possible, but the politics and culture of 18th century France is not well understood by the average lay reader. I found myself writing long-winded author's notes at the beginning of each chapter just so the story would make some kind of sense. Many times these notes were longer than the chapter itself. I decided the best way to tell this story would be through prose. This way I could introduce whatever details I needed the reader to know within the actual story, instead of having to rely on notes that were often quite dry and boring. All of the _Beauty and the Beast_ stories that I have written - _A Winter's Tale_ , _Tender is the Night_ , _The Art of Love_ , _Air and Angels_ , and _The Flesh and the Spirit_ \- will be integrated into this new story. This story will also contain the plots from the three fanfics that I had intended to include in the "Letters to a Loved One" series but had not yet written: _The Cure for Love_ (Babette), _The Stolen Child_ (Chip), and _Utopia_ (Maurice).

That being said, while I have tried to make this story historically accurate, I have only done so up to a certain point. This story takes place in an alternate universe filled with magic, legendary creatures, and, of course, the Disney characters themselves. For example, one change that I made to history was to give Charles, the Duke of Berry (1686-1714) a son. The real Duke of Berry died childless, but here he is the father of Beast. Other Disney princesses - Cinderella, Snow White, Jasmine, etc. - will also be a part of this universe.

Finally, the portrait used in the cover art is _Madame de Pompadour_ by François Boucher.

I hope you enjoy the story.


	2. The Arrival

_Scotland, 1873_

The princess shivered as the wind howled and battered against the carriage. There was nothing of her native France in this wild, unforgiving land. Peeking from behind the curtain, she looked out across the desolate field. It was not beautiful. Dead, brown grass was peeking out from beneath the snow in ugly clumps, and even the trees seemed to falter beneath the continuous, relentless wind. The sky hung low and heavy, the gray clouds promising more bad weather to come. There were no houses, no people, nothing to break up the persistent monotony. It felt like she was at the end of the world. In the distance she could see a bronze statue of a woman gleaming in the dull light, the figure of some long-dead Pictish queen. Her face was fierce and her untamed hair covered with yellow lichen. She sat astride a bear as though still waiting for her enemy to appear on that ancient battlefield. It was the only sign of life the Princess had seen for miles.

Princess Gabrielle closed the curtain, shivering as she settled back into the carriage. She should have stayed in London and never come to this strange country. But she had desired a holiday away from the city and all the terrible memories it held, had she not? And Queen Rose had been most solicitous. The Empress had warned her not to accept the invitation, but she had been curious to meet the supposed lunatic of Dunbroch Hall. When Gabrielle had fled France with her husband's family, she had thought that the worst had already happened to her. She had thought that her life could not get any harder than it was now. She had already lost so much, surely she was owed a little respite.

But life rarely worked out the way one thought it should. She should have known it was only a matter of time before her father-in-law passed. His son's death had devastated him. There was no fight left in him, no dignity or peace. Losing his country and child all in one swift blow had rendered him a bitter, tired old man. Gabrielle doubted if any of their old friends would have recognized him as the same Napoleon III, the last Emperor of France, in those last few months.

They had received many letters of condolences since the Emperor's death, though none so strange as the one sent by Queen Rose. She had heard of her before, the mad woman who styled herself Queen of France. Her name was Rose d'Alençon, and though descended from ancient French nobility she had been born and bred in Scotland. She had been the belle of society years ago when she was still young. Everyone Gabrielle spoke to remembered her as being beautiful and witty, quick with a barb and short of temper. She had been a feisty creature, and desired by many. She had turned down every suitor though; no one was good enough for her as far as she was concerned. Then one day she left London for a holiday in the country, as she did every year. Her friends had expected her to return for the social season, but she never came. Instead, she shut herself away inside that great manor of her's and refused all visitors. No one had seen her in years. Then, quite suddenly, she started to send the most bizarre letters to all of her old friends, calling for the reinstatement of the French monarchy with herself as Queen. Did she think she could incite a plot? It was preposterous. Besides, she had no real claim to the throne. She held the nominal title "Duchess of Berry", but it was merely a courtesy, nothing more. The Duchy of Berry no longer existed, so how could there be a Duchess? Not to mention there had never been a Queen Regnant of France. France was not like England, it did not recognize the legitimacy of female heirs. Besides, there was to never be another French king, much less a French queen. The people had spoken and what they wanted was a democracy. They had no use for the old nobility any longer.

There were other rumors about Queen Rose, dark and hushed that whispered of monsters and black magic. Gabrielle ignored them.

Her letter was indeed odd, but despite her manic rambles there was a hint of keen intelligence that captivated Gabrielle. It was eloquent, beautiful even, and the way she spoke of the Emperor touched the princess deeply. Queen Rose had extended an invitation for the Empress and her family to visit her at Dunbroch Hall, as a retreat away from London. Empress Eugénie had dismissed the letter outright; Queen Rose was not the sort of woman they wanted to associate with. Their situation was precarious and they could not jeopardize it further by falling in with the wrong sort. Gabrielle had no such aspirations. She would never turn away an offer friendship just because it did not come from 'the right sort'. She understood how it felt to be thought of as lesser, as unworthy. Gabrielle may have been a princess, but there were many people who believed she did not deserve the title.

All too sudden the coachman was calling for the horses to halt. The carriage door was thrown open and the princess stepped out, her black frock fluttering behind her like a flock of crows. There was not a soul there to welcome her; the crumbling manor was as silent as a grave. It looked as though no one had lived in it for centuries. Gabrielle had been expecting a bevy of servants and the self-styled Queen herself standing there to greet her. But there was nothing.

For a moment Gabrielle could do nothing but stand there in stunned silence. Did she misunderstand the directions? Was she taken to the wrong estate and ended up at some long-forgotten castle that had since been abandoned? Or was this some kind of trick? There was a connection between Gabrielle and Rose that had been there even before this visit. They were both exiled royalty, two French women lost amongst a sea of English bourgeoisie. It was a thread the princess had clung to, perhaps a bit unwisely. If Mad Rose truly believed she was the rightful Queen of France then she could not accept Gabrielle as anything but a rival. If the Emperor had never been overthrown, if her beloved Prince had survived the Battle of Sedan, it would have been Gabrielle sitting on the French throne. The princess lingered outside the carriage, unsure if she should wait or step back inside and order the coachman to take her straight back to London. She was saved from making the choice for just then she spotted a man rushing towards her. She eyed him curiously, taking in his youthful features, straw-colored hair, and the chip in his tooth. He had this relaxed, loose-limbed air about him, which was only belied by his slovenly appearance. He wore a footman's black jacket and tie that looked as though it had originally belonged to a much larger man. Matched with those were a pair of gardener's trousers and boots. "Forgive me, your Highness, for the lack of reception," he said. "Her Majesty is not well and she regrets not being here to meet you, but her doctor has given her strict orders to remain indoors. I am Potts, the butler."

The Princess gave a little jump at the unexpected sound of her native tongue. Even after three years of living in London, she still struggled with the harsh English language on occasion. Finding someone who could converse with her in French was like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. It was amazing how something as simple as 'Bonjour, madame' could make her feel so giddy and light-hearted. When she first saw Potts, Gabrielle had assumed him to be an errant farmer from the nearby village. She would not have thought he could read, much less speak French. Gabrielle watched him as he directed the coachman. He showed him where to take her trunks in such a graceless way that it was hard to believe he had ever been in service before. If Potts was a butler she would eat her hat. "I must say, your accent is flawless," she complimented.

Potts grinned at her. "Well, your Highness, that is because I am a Frenchman. My name may be English, but I was born and raised in Meudon." He gestured her to follow him. "Come now, your Highness; her Majesty awaits." The Princess smiled and followed him across the cracked cobblestone and icy mud. Potts's casual manner was somewhat shocking. Gabrielle's stepmother would have had her head if she had treated a guest in such a manner. She supposed his forced intimacy should have offended her, but in truth she rather enjoyed his friendly demeanor. After all, she had only been a princess for one year before her expulsion from France. Before then she had been a servant, just like Potts.

Gabrielle glanced up at the decaying façade of the ancient manor as the two quietly stepped inside. It was a strange and desolate place, a setting worthy of a Brontë novel. The parts that weren't collapsing in on itself were completely mismatched: Romanesque towers coupled with Georgian columns and Gothic lancet windows, all overgrown with ivy and lichen. The Great Hall was from the Middle Ages and the foundation dated all the way back to a fort from Anglo-Saxon times. The interior was no better; the paint was peeling and the rugs were covered with mildew and everywhere, everywhere was the musty, cloying smell of disuse. For the first time, Gabrielle began to wonder just how mad this Queen Rose was. Of course she was a lunatic, but her letter had made her seem rather brilliant, if not pitiable. The Princess had felt sorry for this woman, a fellow exile, and saw something of a kindred spirit in her. But what kind of person could bear to live in such a place as this? Gabrielle thought of the poor raving creatures locked away in Bedlam, who slept in their own waste and howled wildly into the night. Was this what awaited her?

Potts finally came to a stop. He gestured for her to wait outside and pulled open a pair of pocket doors, striding inside to announce her arrival to the room's sole occupant. "Your Majesty, may I present Her Imperial Highness, Princess Gabrielle." Gabrielle cautiously entered as Potts took his leave, fearful of what she might find. She gasped in surprise as she took in the room, unable to do anything but marvel at the sudden change. Entering the main parlor was like stepping into a whole other world. The room was decorated in the Rococo style and carefully preserved through the decades. The delicate gilt molding and hand-painted murals were still as bright and beautiful as ever, so different from the rest of the house. There was a portrait of a woman hanging above the fireplace. Her dark hair had been powdered, her lips were a dusky pink, and in her lap rested an open book. She was the most beautiful woman Gabrielle had ever seen, and yet there was something off-putting about her. The woman's hazel eyes had been painted with such detail that they seemed to follow Gabrielle as she moved. The strangest sight of all, however, was the woman in front of her. Seated on a silk tufted sofa was the curious figure of Rose d'Alençon, the self-proclaimed Queen of France. The Queen was covered from head to toe in luxurious Oriental fabrics that were currently so fashionable amongst the artists and intellectuals of London and Paris. She wore a yellow Japonaise gown, embroidered with pink Damask roses. She had coupled this with an azure silk turban and a scarf that was so completely wrapped about her face and neck that the only thing Gabrielle could see were her eyes. Those familiar hazel-colored orbs gazed back at her, glinting with amusement as though she knew a particularly funny joke she couldn't wait to share with the princess.

"Madame Bonaparte," the woman greeted, gesturing to a chair beside her. "Please, sit and have some tea. You must be tired from your journey." She quickly set down her own empty cup to pour one for the Princess.

Gabrielle raised a brow at the slight, but smiled and took the seat all the same with a quick retort of her own. "I'd be happy to, Mademoiselle d'Alençon." If her host refused to acknowledge her title, then Gabrielle would do the same to her.

The woman known as Queen Rose laughed at that, as though she found the little Princess to be an altogether amusing creature. "Forgive me, I did not mean to insult. One can hardly keep track of how many claimants there are to the French throne these days. They seem to be popping out of the woodwork."

"As you yourself should know."

"Too true." Queen Rose's eyes crinkled and Gabrielle knew she was smiling beneath that veil, but something seemed just a little off about the expression. "I am sorry that your family was unable to make the journey, though I do hope you will enjoy your stay."

Gabrielle's smile froze on her face as she took a quick sip of her tea in hopes of buying time to conjure up a polite lie. "The Empress is too bereaved to be out in society just now and my brother-in-law was reluctant to leave her side." This wasn't completely true, but she could hardly tell her that the Empress had sneered in disgust at the mere thought of being in the same room with her, let alone willing to spend an entire month with the woman. "These past few years have been hard on Louis-Napoleon, what with losing both his brother and now his father."

"Death is always hard, especially for the young. If I'm not being too impertinent, may I ask how you are doing?"

"I am doing well," she replied with a soft smile. "It was to be expected, I suppose. He was never the same after the Battle of Sedan and the death of his son." Losing their home had been hard enough, but losing their beloved Charles-Napoleon had been unbearable. Even after three years, Gabrielle still couldn't think of her charming husband without her heart wanting to tear itself out of her chest. The Princess sighed and shook her head, her eyes flitting to Rose's still empty cup. "Here, let me pour you another cup of tea."

Queen Rose shook her head. "No thank you, my doctor has me on a strict diet. Only one cup a day." One gloved hand delicately traced her veil, as though assuring herself it was still firmly in place, though she snatched her hand away the moment she realized Gabrielle was watching her every movement. "I must confess there is a specific reason why I invited you here," Queen Rose announced with a sudden air of determination. "I believe there is still a chance for Prince Louis-Napoleon to become Emperor of France. Not every Frenchman supported the revolution, you know, and there are plots being made even as we speak to restore the Imperial family."

Gabrielle eyed her curiously as she fingered the delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. "Forgive me, but I do not see why you would care. You are not a Bonaparte, you are a Bourbon. My family helped overthrow yours."

"Just as there are still Imperialists in France, there are also true Monarchists even after all these years. They would give anything to see a Bourbon on the throne. My connection is the strongest amongst all the Bourbon claimants; the only thing holding me back is my sex. Still, it does not matter anyway. Neither group is strong enough to lead a revolution on its own. But, if we were to combine our causes, bring both the Bonaparte and the Bourbon supporters together, we could retake France."

"How do you suppose we do that?"

Queen Rose twisted the diamond ring on one gloved finger, not even bothering to look at Gabrielle as she spoke. "I had wanted to discuss this with the Empress, but I understand if she is still too grief-stricken to travel. But, perhaps it is better this way. You could be my advocate."

Gabrielle furrowed her brow. "I don't understand. Advocate for what?"

Queen Rose laughed at that and this time Gabrielle knew she was laughing at her. "The best way to bring together two opposing families is through a marriage. If I married Louis-Napoleon, then the Monarchists will get their Bourbon and the Imperialists will have their Bonaparte. Everyone is happy."

The Princess nearly dropped her cup at the suggestion. "The Imperial Prince is only seventeen years old and you... you are a woman in your thirties!" She spluttered.

"So? There have been many kings and emperors who have married older women. Eleanor of Aquitaine was Henry II's senior by eleven years."

"He is a child," the Princess insisted.

Again, her voice took on that same amused and arrogant tone. "Oh? And how old was your own husband when you married him?"

The Princess stood up and looked down at the woman, her gaze icy and distant. "I will not present such an inappropriate proposal to the Empress. If that is the sole reason why you invited me here then I think it is best for me to leave immediately."

Queen Rose huffed out a sigh and waved her down. "Please, it was only a suggestion. There is no need for you to go rushing back to London this very moment. You can stay for the night and if you feel that you must end your visit so soon, I will send for the carriage in the morning. In the meantime-" The woman stood up and moved over to where a long, silk cord hung from the ceiling. She pulled it, ringing the servants' bell and summoning the butler to the parlor. "-Potts will show you to your room. You will want to freshen up before dinner."

In an instant, Potts was standing in the doorway, ready to escort her out. Gabrielle threw one last look over her shoulder at the strange woman as she left. Queen Rose had moved to stand by the window, her gloved fingers absently playing with her veil as she stared out across the wild plains. For a second Gabrielle could see the arrogant façade fall away, leaving nothing but a bitter, lonely creature in its place.


	3. The Rose of Dunbroch

Gabrielle listlessly picked at her breakfast in the empty hall, noting that her host had not bothered to appear yet again. It had been much the same during dinner the previous night. Despite all assurances that Queen Rose felt no ill-will towards her, it was clear from her frosty silence that she was quite angry with the princess. This suited Gabrielle just fine; if the Queen wanted to throw a tantrum then let her. It would not sway her either way.

Gabrielle glanced around at the lacquered walls, long since blackened with soot and smoke from the fireplace. It was so empty and bare that even the rattling of her spoon sent echoes rippling through the hall. She would be glad to leave this place; what a folly it had been, accepting her invitation. Curiosity had always gotten the better of her. No matter, the carriage would be arriving to take her to Perth in a few hours. She would be able to catch a train there and be back in London by nightfall.

"Is the porridge not to your liking, Your Highness?"

Gabrielle was startled out of her reverie by the sudden appearance of Potts. He had moved so silently, it was almost as if he had materialized out of thin air. "It was delicious," she politely answered. A lie, of course. The meal had been a disaster. How could one man burn porridge to such a degree for it to be unrecognizable? But she would never say as such. Potts seemed to be the only servant in Queen Rose's employ. It was hardly reasonable to expect him to be butler, footman, maid, and cook. "Though a light meal is best when starting a journey."

"I am glad to hear of it. I would hate to think that my cooking could be so unappetizing," he teased, but the smile quickly faded. "Though I am afraid your journey will have to be postponed for the time being. The roads are nothing but ice and mud from the storm last night; it is quite impassable at the moment. Her Majesty, Queen Rose, has generously offered you accommodation for however long you may need it."

Gabrielle leaned back in her chair and fixed Potts with the gentle, dumb smile that she had learned to arrange upon her face as a child. The one she used to keep her stepmother from knowing her true thoughts. After so many years of being free of her the smile felt so foreign to her now, and yet she marveled at how quick she had fallen back into old habits as soon as the lie fell from Potts's lips. There had been no storm last night. She had gotten very little rest, plagued with terrible dreams of monsters lurking in the shadows. They had haunted the corners of her eyes, but every time she turned to look they would dance just out of sight. She had finally given up on sleeping and spent most of the night reading. There had been no snow or sleet or rain; even the winds had calmed to a gentle breeze. So why the deception? Did Queen Rose think she could change her mind if given enough time? Or did her host have something else planned? She was a madwoman, after all, who knew what twisted turns her troubled mind would take? Whatever the reason, Gabrielle knew she should leave and quickly. She could not stay in a place where the occupants were purposely trying to delude her. She would play along for now and, when the time was right, she would slip out and walk to Dunbroch Village. Someone there would give her a ride to Perth. It was a few miles away, but she was not unused to hard labor. A day's walk would be nothing to her. All she had to do was get away without being seen. "That would be delightful," Gabrielle replied. "If you would unpack my trunks, I think I will take a turn about the garden before the weather turns bad again."

Potts bowed to her and took his leave. The princess dropped her napkin onto the table and left the dining room, a plan already forming in her mind. She sped up the stairs, moving as quickly as decorum allowed, and entered the room that Queen Rose had provided for her. It was bare save for a few pieces of furniture, but it was clean and considering the state of the manor she supposed she was lucky for that. She picked up her gloves and the cloak she had laid out on her bed that morning. She had expected to be leaving by carriage, not on foot and so her choice in attire was entirely unsuited for the long march she faced. But suspicions might be aroused if she pulled out her thick woolen coat and heavy boots for a simple turn about the garden. She would have to bear the wind and cold, there was no other choice.

_THUMP! THUMP!_

Gabrielle felt her heart leap into her throat at the noise. It sounded as though someone was beating on the far wall. Perhaps Potts was doing a little cleaning? But no, he was in the cloak room unpacking her luggage. Maybe there were other servants in Queen Rose's employ that she just hadn't seen? It was ridiculous to think of Potts taking care of this great manor house all on his own. That must have been it.

Gabrielle left the room without sparing the noise a second thought. She moved down the hall, trying to push her worried thoughts from her mind.

_THUMP! THUMP!_

The princess froze, her heart hammering in her chest as she looked around. The sound was following her.

_THUMP! THUMP!_

Gabrielle lifted her skirts and ran. That detestable pounding continued to reverberate through the walls as she went. It echoed down the corridors, following her, mocking her. Her thoughts grew panicked and wild as the thumping became louder and more frequent. She flung herself out the door and into the garden, free of the house and the noises and the madwoman that lived in its empty rooms. Gabrielle gasped as the sharp, biting wind slapped her in the face. Her heart was racing wildly with fear and adrenaline, so fast and hard that she thought she might die from it. Her corset seemed to squeeze her tighter, like a python; she could not catch her breath. Gabrielle wiped away the cold sweat that had gathered at her brow. She needed to calm herself. It would do her no good if she fainted. The Princess placed a hand against her stomach and forced herself to breathe in through her nose. She was not helpless; she would not allow Queen Rose or Dunbroch Manor or anything else frighten her. She was no longer that little girl cowering from her stepmother's cruel gaze. She was a Princess.

Gabrielle felt herself grow calm. She straightened her cloak and patted her blonde hair in place. She began a casual stroll about the garden, hoping that she looked the part of the guileless princess they all thought she was. Gabrielle could see Potts moving through the house, the bare windows giving her a clear view of him as he went about his duties, which, in turn, gave him just as good a view of her. The princess pretended to admire the scenery, though it was the dead of winter and so there was not much to see. Everything was gray and lifeless, much like the manor itself. She supposed it must be lovely in the spring, but Gabrielle couldn't imagine anything growing in such a place as this. She moved past a hedge of roses, their thorns sticking into her dress as she went, when a flash of color caught her eye. Gabrielle peeked through the leafless, brown thicket and saw to her surprise a rose in full bloom. The perfume was heady, much stronger than those of modern roses that were becoming so popular in the cities. The princess reached out and touched the ice-covered petals, marveling at how such a thing could exist at this time of year. She traced one delicate, pink edge before suddenly pulling away, shaking her head at how easily she had been distracted. She gathered her skirts and looked about her, but Potts was nowhere to be seen. The garden was deserted. Gabrielle darted through the hedges and out onto the snow-covered fields, never noticing the dark figure in the high window, watching her every movement.

* * *

Gabrielle shoved her hands underneath her arms, trying desperately to keep warm as the sun sank beneath the horizon. She had been walking all day and still there was no sign of this mysterious village she had been told about. Occasionally she would stumble across a small house that had long been abandoned, or she would see the crumbling ruins of a chimney. Once she spied a cobblestone street buried beneath the snow, cracked and broken with brown, dead grasses shooting through. Where it led, she had not a clue. In an hour she would no longer be able to see the well-worn path; then what would happen to her? She had heard there were wolves that lurked in the forest at night. The princess eyed the foreboding trees in the distance and shivered at the thought. She trudged on, the snow and ice crunching with each lopsided step that she took. She had lost one of her heels a few miles back. She was completely ill-prepared for this type of terrain or weather, which would only get worse once night fell.

The princess pulled her cloak in tighter as twilight descended upon the Scottish wilds. She needed to find shelter; if she didn't she would freeze to death. Thoughts of turning back rose unbidden to her mind. Gabrielle couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she had overreacted. Maybe there really had been a storm and she had simply slept through it; it was possible, after all. But then the land looked much the same as it had when she arrived; some snow had fallen, yes, but not enough to make travel impossible. Her carriage had arrived here in fine form, so why could it not take her back? Besides, there was no accounting for the noises she had heard. Perhaps it had been rats living in the walls, she wouldn't doubt it if there were, but she knew well those sounds and those were not the noises a rat made. Besides, even if she wanted to return to Dunbroch it was miles away and it would be impossible to find her way back in the dark. She would not let fear overcome her, she would stick to her course.

Gabrielle stopped at the sound of heavy hooves beating against the frozen ground. She turned around and smirked at the sight of a large Shire horse pulling along a lone cart. Just as she suspected, the ground was not so treacherous after all. She waved her arm, flagging the driver down, smiling wide as her savior pulled to a halt beside her. The driver was a portly man with brown hair sticking out from underneath his wide-brimmed hat. It was curled in such a strange, old-fashioned style; she didn't think men had worn their hair that way for at least one hundred years. "Would you care for a lift, Madame?" He asked in a clipped, English accent. How strange, the princess mused. He sounded like the English lords the Empress entertained at Camden House, unlike the thick accent of a Scottish farmer that she had been expecting.

"Yes, thank you," she replied gratefully and was surprised by the way the man stepped out of the cart to give her his hand, bowing with the pompous flourish of a middle-class tradesman putting on airs. Gabrielle eyed him warily as he climbed back in and started off. He was clearly an eccentric and she had more than her fill of eccentrics after her disastrous stay at Dunbroch Manor. Beggars could not be choosers, but it would be wise to remain cautious. "I am so glad you drove by. I am staying with some friends near here and had decided to do a little exploring, but I'm afraid I became hopelessly lost." She gave a little laugh and hoped he didn't see through her lie. "I do not know what would have happened if you had not shown up."

"Not to worry, Madame," he assured. "William Cogsworth, at your service."

"Gabrielle Tremaine," she replied. She hadn't used her maiden name in four years, but it still rolled easily off her tongue.

"I am happy to meet your acquaintance, Madame Tremaine," he said. "It is a shame we did not meet earlier. I could have given you an excellent tour of the countryside. Very few people know the history of this place as well as I."

"You are a historian then?"

"An amateur historian," he corrected. He then pointed up towards a hill where a group of large stones had been placed in a circle. Gabrielle could just make out the Celtic runes carved into the sides in the fading light. "That is the Dunbroch Menhir, one of several groups of standing stones that dot the British Isles. Local legend has it that if you visit the stones at night a will-o-wisp will appear to you and lead you to your destiny." Cogsworth smiled at her. "But I'm sure a lady such as yourself does not believe in fairy tales."

"On the contrary, I am a firm believer in magic," she replied with a secret smile of her own.

Although the smile never wavered from his face, his expression grew suddenly sad. "That is good," he said. "It will make things easier."

Gabrielle frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Your Highness, it is good to see that you are back."

Gabrielle nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that she was back at the manor. Potts was standing by the cart with one hand on the horse's reigns, looking up at her expectantly. They had been travelling in the opposite direction, away from the manor. She knew it. How could this have happened? "I thought you were going to take me to the village!" Gabrielle exclaimed.

"Madame, the village has been abandoned for some time. The last of the inhabitants moved out years ago when-" Cogsworth stopped himself, shooting a worried glance at Potts before turning back to Gabrielle. "The closest village is Scone. However, it would take you days to reach it on foot."

"And you will not take me by carriage?" Gabrielle demanded, glancing back and forth between the two men. Their silence told her everything she needed to know.

"A fire has been lit in your room and I have left you a tray with some supper. I believe it is still warm," Potts said instead.

Gabrielle stepped down from the cart, ignoring the way Potts held out a hand to help her. She silently strode across the courtyard towards the manor, leaving Potts and Cogsworth behind in her wake. "This is getting out of hand! You must speak with Her Grace," one of them whispered.

"You mean Her Majesty." There was a definite sneer in the man's tone. "And what exactly am I supposed to say? I don't recall you telling off the Duke when he held Belle prisoner against her will. 'Remember what the Master said! Remember what the Master said!'" The other mocked harshly in a high-pitched voice.

Gabrielle could hear no more as she entered the manor, their voices drowned out by her own quiet, shaking sobs. "Please, help me, Godmother."


	4. Creatures in the Dark

Gabrielle knew little of her Godmother. The old woman had told her that she was a relative of her mother's, though in what way she never explained. The princess's mother had died soon after giving birth and her father had followed her not six years later. She had been raised by her stepmother, who knew nothing of her mother's family nor cared to ever find out. Her Godmother had once told her that she was a powerful fairy, ancient and nigh immortal and that she had had many names throughout the centuries. She certainly believed it to be true. With a wave of a wand and the mumbling of a few nonsense words, her Godmother could command magic greater than anything the princess could have dreamed up. There was nothing she couldn't do, she was sure of it. She was strong and powerful and kind and Gabrielle wished she could be just like her. But she wasn't, she was just Gabrielle, the dirty little servant girl who scrubbed the fireplaces. She wished she was strong enough to rescue herself, but she needed help. She needed her Godmother. Gabrielle spent all night crying and praying, but she did not come. Nor did she come the next day or the day after that.

A full week had passed and Gabrielle was no closer to gaining her freedom. Every plan she came up with proved useless in the face of the Queen's watchful gaze and her faithful, ever-present dog, Potts. It was not an unpleasant imprisonment. No one harmed her or belittled her or forced her to do anything she did not want to do; other than holding her captive against her will, of course. By far the worse thing she had to endure was a daily visit from Queen Rose. Every afternoon she would summon her so-called guest for a cup of tea, chatting amiably with her as though they were long-time friends. Gabrielle refused to speak with her; she wouldn't even so much as look at her, not that it ever deterred the other woman.

Queen Rose set her still-full cup on the table as she talked endlessly about her childhood at Dunbroch, back when the manor was at its height of glory. That was another oddity of her host. Despite the fact that Queen Rose always insisted on having afternoon tea, Gabrielle had never actually seen her drink it. She had never seen her do anything that might dislodged the veil that always hid her face from view. Gabrielle let her gaze run over the woman; not a single inch of skin could be seen. The only thing that remained uncovered was her hazel eyes. It was eccentric, but what could she expect of a lunatic and a kidnapper? Still, it was strange and Gabrielle could not help but wonder at the purpose of it. Then she remembered. Words of Queen Rose's delicate health suddenly took on a new meaning as they came rushing back to her. Gabrielle shakily set her cup down as realization dawned, her stomach rolling at the thought. Leprosy. That was why the woman covered her body, to hide the warped flesh disfigured by the disease.

Those piercing eyes crinkled in amusement at the way Gabrielle leaned unconsciously away from her. "I know what you're thinking," Queen Rose said. "Trust me, leprosy would have been a Godsend. The truth is much worse, I'm afraid."

The princess didn't know what to say. What could she possibly mean by that? "Why don't you tell me about France?" The older woman prompted. "I've never actually set foot there, you know. My grandparents fled to Dunbroch during the Revolution - the first one, I mean - and never returned. Oh, they refused to give up their claim to the Duchy of Berry, of course, though they were more Scottish than French by the time I came along."

Gabrielle said nothing to this and the long minutes ticked by. Queen Rose sighed in frustration at her lack of cooperation. "A conversation, by definition, requires more than one person talking," she snapped. "You do not want to talk about the home you were exiled from? Fine. What about your life before you wed your charming Prince? Your family? You could tell me how you came to be known by the delightful moniker 'Cinderella'."

A red haze overtook her senses at the sound of her stepsisters' old childhood jeer. She was halfway out of her chair before she was stopped by one elegant, gloved hand upon her arm. "Sit," Queen Rose commanded. "I apologize for the insult. I spoke out of anger. it is a fault that runs thick through my bloodline; the d'Alençons are well known around these parts for their temper. Please do not think that I am one of those ladies who cannot bear the thought that commoners might be just as worthwhile as any aristocrat. In fact, my great-great-grandmother was a commoner before she married the Duke of Berry." Queen Rose gestured to the portrait of the beautiful woman that watched over the parlor with her keen eyes. "Her name was Belle de Villeneuve. They say she was a witch. Supposedly, she and the Duke had been banished from Versailles by King Louis XV for practicing black magic."

Gabrielle looked up at the pretty face that stared down at her. There was nothing sinister about her visage, but there must have been something dark and terrible inside her to begat such a creature as Queen Rose.

* * *

Gabrielle laid on top of her bed, her hands resting across her stomach as her thoughts raced circles around her mind. She imagined stealing a horse and riding straight through to Perth. Or perhaps she could get a letter out to the Empress, a real letter and not the fake ones Queen Rose forged. She could tell her everything and within a day the police would descend upon this little country manor like locusts. Maybe if she prayed hard enough her Godmother would finally hear her and whisk her away in an enchanted carriage. They could fly over the snow-covered fields all the way back to London.

Every little dream of escape only became more ridiculous as time went on.

If she was braver, or smarter, she might be able to get away. But she was none of those things. She was Cinderella. She was stupid and weak. She swept away the dirt and dreamed about dances and pretty dresses. A beautiful little dream that could never be pierced by her stepmother's words. What a fool she was.

There was a sound. A high-pitched girlish giggle. A tune being hummed.

Gabrielle sat up in bed and listened hard. She could hear a woman's voice outside of her room. She was singing. " _Histoire éternelle... aussi réelle qu'elle pourait l'être... entre deux amis qu'un... geste rapproche... imprévisiblement..._ " The voice broke off into humming once more as she passed by her door, the sound drifting further and further away.

The princess threw on a robe and crept to the door, cracking it open just a sliver to peek out into the hallway. She caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman disappearing around the corner, her arms laden with dirty laundry. That was a surprise. The only servant she had ever seen at Dunbroch was Potts; she had been sure there was no one else but him. During the day he seemed to take on any task required of him, doing anything and everything Queen Rose asked. He did it all. It would take a special sort of person to serve such a mistress as Queen Rose, and the princess hadn't thought anyone would have been up to the task, much less two people. Gabrielle slipped out of her room and followed the girl silently. As she came around the corner she saw a door had been left ajar. Light from a flickering candle casted shadows across the old, rotten wood. She must be in there. Neither Potts nor Cogsworth had been willing to help her, but perhaps she could find a sympathetic soul in this little maid. Gabrielle stepped into the room, ready to call out to the mysterious woman, only to find the place empty. The lit candle was perched upon a table, but other than that there was no sign that anyone had ever been here. The maid had not even left footprints in the dust.

Gabrielle felt her heart thunder inside her chest as she looked about. The room seemed to serve as storage. There were trunks haphazardly thrown about, old paintings stacked against one wall, and a little heeled shoe lying carelessly across the floor, looking lost and lonely without its mate. What could a maid possibly be doing here at this time of night? And where did she go? Cogsworth had mentioned magic, perhaps that had something to do with the mysterious noises and the disappearing servants that plagued Dunbroch Manor. The only way to find out was to do a little digging of her own. The princess knelt before one of the trunks and pushed it open, peering curiously inside. It was full of odds and ends: empty perfume bottles, spotted photographs, and stacks of paper, yellowed with age. She reached in and pulled out a thick bundle of letters that had been tied together with a ribbon.  _Paris, 1737... London, 1690... Edinburgh, 1832... Virginia, 1714..._  The letters were from all over the world and spanned across centuries.

Fascinated, she tugged one of the letters free and began to read-

_December 30, 1729_

_My Dear Babette,_

_I am afraid you have completely knocked me off my feet, my little maid. I am unsure of what I should do. I have never been wooed by a woman before. I feel as though I am Daphne and you are Apollo. I, the hunter, have now become your prey. You have chased me through the forest, inflamed by Cupid's golden arrow, its tip piercing you to the bones and marrow. Does the love in your breast burn so bright? Forgive me if I seem suspicious of your intentions but I remember not long ago you had hunted Monsieur Laurent like a hound on the scent of a doe. It was not love you were after, but his wealth. I must tell you that I do not own a single silver écu to my name. Does this deter you, Mademoiselle? Or does your passion still burn?_

_If you still want me then you must know I will not flee. I am no virgin huntress, no acolyte of Diana. I shall turn to face you. I will not back down from love's challenge. If you continue to pursue me be aware that my skills rival your own. I will best you at your own game for I have never met another who could match me in the ways of love. I have loved a great many of women and all have quaked and trembled at the knowledge and skill I possess. A woman is a delicate instrument, one that I have spent my life studying. I will make you sing._

_You, my bright young thing, seem to believe that you can take on this old master. Very well, I will accept your challenge. Come into my rooms, make me gasp your name, make me beg you for more. Fill my mind with thoughts of you, make me know no other emotion but the ecstasy you give me. If you can do this then I will bow down and call you Mistress._

_Come if you think you can make me yours._

_François_

Gabrielle grinned and blushed at the beautiful lines scrawled across the parchment. Love letters! She had always adored love stories. After spending an entire day, from dawn until dusk, cooking and cleaning for her stepmother and stepsisters, she would crawl into her bed late at night, tired and exhausted, and pull out a book. She had loved her French translations of  _Jane Eyre_ ,  _Wuthering Heights_ , and  _Pride and Prejudice_  until they had become so worn and dirty that the pages were falling from their seams and the covers were illegible from stains.

Gabrielle felt her ears prick at the sound of scuffling. Carefully putting the fragile letters into the pocket of her robe, she peered into the dim light. It had almost sounded like a mouse; not that she was afraid of mice. Her stepmother had forced her to sleep in the attic where the sounds of their little claws scratching against the floor and between the walls had lulled her to sleep. The only problem was that it sounded much, much larger than a mouse.

She peered into the shadowed corners where the light could not reach, trying to locate the source of the sound. She saw something flutter and step out of the darkness. Gabrielle pulled back, her mouth dropping open in a scream as a hideous creature stood before her. It was half-woman and half-moth. It's face and torso was that of a human, but the lower body was all insect. Giant brown wings blew up dust with every fluttering beat. Its face might have been beautiful, but when it opened its mouth Gabrielle could see the black proboscis slip out from between it's full, red lips.

The creature moved towards her on four spindly black legs, it's bare white arms reaching out to touch her. With another scream Gabrielle fled the room, racing through the manor in a desperate attempt to reach the entrance hall before the creature could seize her. Her panicked, scattered thoughts raced through her head. She couldn't think. She knew the way out - she did - but she couldn't concentrate. Not with the terrible scratching trailing behind her, matching her step for step. It was driving her mad. She wanted to turn and look, but fear kept her from peeking. Despite the frosty chill, sweat ran down the side of her face as Gabrielle breathed hotly, her legs trembling as she ran. She could hear the pulse of blood rushing through her head as her heart pounded in time to the that awful, terrible scratching. There! That was the door that would lead to the Great Hall! There was no Potts to stop her this time; she would leave the manor tonight, even if it meant freezing, lost in the forest on some winter's night. She would face anything to get away from the monster. Gabrielle ran into the Great Hall and flung herself at the doors, tugging with all her might. They would not budge. Gabrielle felt herself gasping, trying desperately to breathe through her rising panic as it choked her. She could hear the monster's wings flapping behind her head, impossibly loud. As a dark shadow fell over her, the princess looked up to see the monster crawling across the ceiling towards her. The black proboscis slipped from between its shiny, red lips, inching towards her.

It was the last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her.

 


	5. A Funeral and a Journey

Gabrielle could feel herself hovering on the precipice of consciousness as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her. If she was not careful, the blessed darkness would slip away and she would find herself plunging head first into that bright, waking world filled with monsters and wicked queens. She floated through the air, so weightless and lightheaded, before landing on a bed of feathers. A broad, callused palm stroked her face. It was only then that Gabrielle felt brave enough to open her eyes and look around. From the single lamp that had been lit, she could see that she was lying on a dust-covered couch in one of the dilapidated parlors just off the entrance hall. Potts was sitting beside her, his hand resting against her forehead and a worried look in his eyes. "How are you feeling?" He asked.

"I saw a monster," Gabrielle croaked out. Her voice was harsh and rough; just the sound of it was enough to make her head pound. She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt heavy.

There was no reaction in Potts's face. It was like he hadn't even heard her. "I'm going to help you to your room. Do you think you can manage the stairs?" Potts asked. "We need to get you in bed. You've got a fever. God only knows how long you were lying there before I found you. Come on, now." He looped her arms around his neck and stood up, his hands braced against her back. Gabrielle's head swam as she suddenly found herself standing upright.

"But the monster..." The Princess protested.

"There is no monster," Potts replied. "It was just a fever dream. Come on, now, watch your step." They inched their way through the manor and by the time Gabrielle was able to crawl into bed her entire body ached. The man pulled the covers over her and brushed back her sweat-soaked hair. "I'll fetch a doctor, you'll feel better in no time."

Potts slipped out of the room then, leaving the Princess to stare blearily up at the ceiling with thoughts of the monster still flitting through her mind. It was not a delusion, she knew it wasn't. With a jolt she realized her robe was still firmly clasped about her waist. She slipped her fingers into her pocket and fingered the rough edges of the letters she had found. She was right. It had happened. There really was a monster.

Determination burned away the pain as she sat up and stared down at the little bundle in her lap. The letters were so yellowed and frayed that Gabrielle felt they would crumble into dust at any moment. She hesitated for only a second before pulling on one end of the frayed blue ribbon, unraveling the bundle like a present. She picked up a letter, one that was heavily stained. Even after all these years, there was still a lingering scent that clung to the paper. A wispy perfume of sweet cakes and lavender and black tea. She unfolded it and stared down at the tidy scrawl. It was in English, and had she found it only a few years ago it would have been indecipherable to her. Gabrielle lifted the letter up to the single candle Potts had left behind. It was written on August 20, 1701. Nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. She squinted at the faded lines, trying to make out the words.

_Dearest Eleanor..._

* * *

__

_England, 1701_

_Dearest Eleanor,_

_The wind has failed... I worry we might never see America..._

Charlotte peeked down into the simple wooden box that held the body of her father. She had read a poem once about a beautiful, young girl that had died. Her lover had wept beside her body, crying out that she was so beautiful that even then she looked as if she was only sleeping. Seeing her father now, Charlotte couldn't help but think how silly that poem was. Her father didn't look like he was sleeping; he just looked dead.

Amelia stood by her side, scowling down at figure in the coffin. "Are you sure the undertaker didn't mix up the bodies?" She asked. "It doesn't look like him. His face is different."

"He does look different," Charlotte mused as she absently brushed away the errant strands of hair that had fallen out from her sister's cap. "He's not smiling." Her father had always been smiling and laughing. It was so strange to look at his face now and see nothing.

"That better be him, alright, for what I paid" Robert announced as he came sweeping into the parlor. "The bill was outrageous. £50! It's highway robbery!" He grumbled, only stopping in his complaints to take a breath. "Has anyone seen my hat? I better look upstairs."

"Jane, sweetheart!" Eleanor called out just as Robert made his way up the stairwell. Jane slunk out from the dark corner she had hidden herself in, looking up at Eleanor with her large, dark eyes that always seemed so serious. "The guests will be here at any moment. Go get the favors and be ready to pass them out. There's a good girl."

"Is there something I should do?" Their mother asked. Hearing the quaver in her voice shook Charlotte to the core; she sounded so lost. Charlotte turned to see her sitting on the sofa, her hands clasped together like a nervous child, looking about for some sort of direction or sign. Charlotte had always thought her mother was pretty for a woman her age, but now she just looked old and tired. For the first time, she could see the streaks of white running through her red hair and how loose and saggy her skin had become.

"No, Mother, you needn't worry about a thing. Robert and I have taken care of everything," Eleanor assured her.

"Eleanor! Have you seen my hat!?" The sound of Robert's voice seemed to echo down the stairs.

Eleanor snorted to herself before yelling right back, "It's wherever you last put it!"

"I don't remember where that is!"

"Do not make me come up there!"

Amelia burst into giggles at the way her sister argued with her husband. She immediately slapped her hand across her mouth to stifle the sound, forgetting for a moment that this was a somber day. Mother smiled gently at her young daughter, opening her arms for her. "It's alright, darling, you can laugh," she said as she pulled her girl in close to her chest.

"I can see the rector coming up the lane now," Jane announced.

"Is Mr. Potts with him!?" Eleanor demanded, pushing her sister away from the window in such a flurry of movement that mousy, little Jane suddenly found herself standing in the middle of the parlor, blinking dazedly at her sisters and mother in confusion. "That's him! He's there, walking with Mr. Thompson. Oh!" In a second, Eleanor had rounded on Charlotte, reaching out to pinch her cheeks. Charlotte yelped and tried to slap her hands away, but Eleanor persisted. "I'm just putting a little color in your cheeks," she huffed. "You have such a pretty complexion, this will help show it off. Thank God you didn't end up with Father's freckles, like poor Amelia."

"Hey!" Amelia interjected from where she sat on her mother's lap.

"This is a funeral, Eleanor, not a ball," Charlotte insisted. "It is hardly appropriate."

"When you're starving to death, you won't much care about propriety."

"I can always go back to work for Lady Pembroke," Charlotte pointed out. "Mrs. Tanner, the housekeeper, really liked me. I had already been promoted to second maid by the time I left."

"Yes, but hopefully Mr. Potts will take a liking to you and it won't have to come to that," Eleanor insisted as she smoothed back Charlotte's scarlet hair. "You don't want to spend your entire life in service, do you? You will want a husband and children eventually and Mr. Potts would be a wonderful match."

A sharp rap at the door halted any more protests on the subject. Robert flew down the stairs, hat firmly on his head, to welcome the guests into their home. As the villagers pressed around the body centered on the table, the rector came up to their mother and shook her hand. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Baker. Your husband was truly a God-fearing man and this village is sorrier to have lost him." The rector smiled down at Amelia and patted her on the head. "God has blessed you, though, with the love of such goodly daughters to comfort you in your time of need." He nodded towards Eleanor, Charlotte, and Jane. He had known the Baker girls since they were infants; anyone could see the pride in his face at how they had grown.

Charlotte could only smile wanly back. Her eyes flitted over to where Mr. Oliver Potts stood brooding in a corner. He was much older than she had thought he would be; he looked almost as old as her father. He had a sharp, thin face with a long nose and impeccably smooth cheeks without so much as a hint of stubble to them. His pale, watery eyes raked over her, only to glance away when he saw her staring. This was the man her sister wanted her to marry: a severe-looking widower who would take her far away from home, all the way across the ocean to another country. A good daughter would not put up a fuss. A good daughter would say yes and be happy with her lot in life. Without Father, there was no way that Mother could pay the rent on their cottage, and Eleanor and Robert could not afford to feed and keep all of them, not with a baby of their own on the way. Jane and Amelia were still not of marriageable age, which left only Charlotte to shoulder the burden. She didn't have a dowry; she would be lucky to get this man, who owned his house and land outright.

As Jane went around to pass out the favors to the mourners, Eleanor took Charlotte by the arm to introduce her to Mr. Potts. "Mr. Potts," Eleanor said. "I would like for you to meet my sister, Charlotte."

"It is a pleasure," he said with a bow. "I could only wish that it were under happier circumstances." His manners were impeccable, though his expression never changed from that dour look that seemed permanently etched upon his face. Everything about him was mechanical and awkward, as though he was not quite human.

"I am sorry to hear of your own loss," Charlotte stated.

For a fleeting moment Charlotte thought she had seen genuine emotion in the man's eyes, but it was gone in a flash. "Yes, my wife," he said and nothing else.

For what seemed like an eternity, the three of them could only stand there aimlessly as they searched for something to say. Finally, Eleanor broke first. "You have met his brother, William Potts, haven't you, Charlotte? He is my husband's employer."

"No, I'm afraid I have not yet had that pleasure," Charlotte replied stiffly, knowing that her sister was fully aware that she had never met the man.

Instead of sustaining the conversation, Mr. Potts said nothing and simply stared at the two women with dull eyes. "I should see how Mother is doing," Eleanor announced and made a hasty retreat, leaving her younger sister to fend for herself.

"When will you be returning to America, Mr. Potts?" Perhaps a direct question would pry open his mouth.

"In a month. Hopefully, I will have acquired a wife by then."

Charlotte could feel her face redden at his frankness. She knew that was his sole reason for coming to England in the first place, but still... To just put forth his intentions in such a way! It was unseemly. Not to mention he spoke of acquiring a wife as though he were purchasing a plot of land. Did he really think so little of the women around him? "And... Did you have someone in mind?" Charlotte asked.

Mr. Potts shrugged. "To be honest, I do not care who she is, so long as she keeps a good house and tends to my children." He narrowed his eyes at her, studying her. "When I told William of my plans he suggested you, but you seem awfully young to me. How old are you, if I may ask?"

"I will be sixteen in a week."

"Good Lord," he exclaimed. "That is only a few years older than my Rachel. What a pair we are."

There was no time to say anything else for the coffin was being nailed shut and the men were hefting it onto their shoulders. The mourners trailed after the shuffling pallbearers, crying and wailing all the while. The unhappy procession made their way to the village church for the burial; already the gravediggers were hard at work. As they lowered the coffin into the ground, it suddenly occurred to Charlotte that she would never see her father's face again, not until she too was dead and buried. There had been so much to do since his death that Charlotte hadn't had the time to even feel sad, but now there was nothing stop the tears from flowing down her face. As Charlotte cried out her loss, she could feel Eleanor wrap her arm around her shoulder and Jane clasp her hand and Amelia holding fast to her skirt. Together they listened to the rector's baleful lamentation.

Two weeks later, Charlotte found herself on a ship heading towards a new country with a new name: Mrs. Potts.

 


	6. The Soldier Appears

For the first time in her life, Charlotte was alone. She shivered as she peeked out the window, trying to see the forest through the frost that had spread across the glass. It was so quiet. It felt like she was living on the edge of the world. She had imagined that living on the American frontier would be a grand adventure. She hadn't imagined the loneliness, the isolation, and the oppressive silence. The only people she saw were Mr. Potts and his daughters. Once a month they might take a trip to town, miles and miles away from their little one-room cabin, to attend church and do a some shopping. Charlotte yearned to make the acquaintance of the village women, to have someone she could call a friend. But before she knew it Mr. Potts would be herding them back into the wagon, never allowing her or the girls a moment to themselves. He did not want them associating with such Godless folk, as he termed it. No one in town seemed to be good enough for Mr. Potts. All the way back home, Charlotte would have to put up with her husband's dull condemnations of his neighbors. Mr. Tanner had married a loose woman, the Harrisons never went to church, Mr. and Mrs. Black were Quakers, and so on and so forth. He seemed to think that merely associating with them would somehow taint him in the eyes of the Lord. More than once Charlotte had wanted to snap at him, to demand just who exactly was worthy of his time since there were so many who weren't. Had not Jesus commanded man to love thy neighbor as thyself? She never said anything though; she didn't want to argue and it never seemed worth it. Besides, if she could not find companionship in her own husband then what would that say about her as a wife? Charlotte resigned herself. There would be no adventures, not for her. There was nothing here, nothing but her work and her family and that damnable forest that went on for miles and miles. She hated the forest. The black woods seemed to press in on all sides and, she was sure she was being silly for thinking such things, but there seemed to be something primordial and dangerous lurking in the darkness. Something like magic. Nights were worse for that was when the wolves came out. She could hear them howling, their paws scratching at the door, waiting for their chance to sneak in and drag one of them away. They were so far from town, if anything were to happen...

Charlotte shook the cobwebs from her mind and tried to focus on her work. Needle in hand she resumed her sewing. Despite the cold weather, the air inside the cabin was stifling. A fire blazed in the hearth and the room was heavy with the smell of cornpone that she had made that morning. Charlotte rocked back in her chair, carefully hemming the old calico dress for Rachel. She tucked in the bodice and added scalloped ruffles to the sleeves to better hide her long, ungainly arms. The dress had once belonged to Mr. Potts's late wife, Rebecca. Mr. Potts had suggested she make use of them instead of wasting time and money sewing her own clothes; as if she would wear his dead wife's dresses! The thought was positively ghoulish. Charlotte was no one's replacement, but that seemed to be how Mr. Potts viewed her. It was better to give them to Rachel to wear; it might bring some comfort to her in her grief. All of Rebecca's things were still here, carelessly placed as though she had only popped out for a moment and would return shortly. Her pots and pans, quilts and pillows, loom and spindle and broom and linens... Rebecca's presence permeated through the house like an unwanted spirit, making Charlotte feel more like a guest than its new mistress.  _Rebecca! Rebecca!_  That was all she ever seemed to hear. Mr. Potts always had a parable to tell about his virtuous first wife and how Charlotte might be able to learn from her example, and if it wasn't him making her feel like a fool then it was Rachel and her snide comparisons. Rachel seemed to take delight in pointing out Charlotte's mistakes, informing her that the way she cooked or cleaned or any other little thing she did was wrong and not the way her mother would have gone about it. Only little Sarah seemed to like and appreciate her as she was. All this talk about Rebecca was enough to drive her mad. Still, she supposed she shouldn't think ill of the dead. She should be gracious and well-mannered; Charlotte never could abide rudeness.

Charlotte nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the door slam open. There, in the doorway, stood a frightful sight. It looked as though Rachel had gotten into a brawl and come out worse for wear. Her face was covered in manure and scratches, mixed with tears and snot, and in her limp hand she clutched a battered milk pail, which told the story. Sarah came in behind her, giggling and spilling the milk she carried across the floor with each step. "Mummy! Mamie kicked Rachel off her stool!" The little girl crowed, laughing with each word.

It happened so fast that Charlotte hadn't any time to react. Suddenly Rachel was drawing her hand back and with a crack like thunder she struck Sarah across the face. "She is not your mother!" Rachel berated while the child screamed.

Charlotte immediately pulled Sarah into her arms and glared up at Rachel. "You should be ashamed of yourself! Why, I have half a mind-"

"To do what?" Rachel challenged. She was just three years younger than Charlotte herself, but she towered over her step-mother. At five feet, seven inches Rachel was a good head taller and had a lean, stringy look that hid how strong she really was. Charlotte couldn't exactly take a switch to her; Rachel would knock her flat on her arse without breaking so much as a sweat if she tried.

"I am telling your father about this," Charlotte hissed, scooping Sarah up into her arms. It was all she could do. "Come on, let's go find Mr. Potts," she cooed as she brushed back the little girl's long brown hair. Sarah gave a little sniffle and buried her face in her neck; Charlotte could feel her tears soak into her skin. With one last glare at Rachel, Charlotte stepped outside, shutting the door behind her. She breathed in deeply, trying to calm her frazzled nerves as the crisp autumn air bit into her lungs; fall was almost over and winter was beginning to set in, making everything look gloomy and dead. There was a strange acrid smell in the air, as though something was burning. Looking up, Charlotte could see a column of smoke far in the distance. She frowned and wondered what it could be when the sound of crunching leaves stole her attention. Charlotte felt her heart leap into her throat as thoughts of wolves and spirits came rushing back to her, but when she turned to look she only saw a man - a soldier - limping out of the forest, his bloodied arm buried inside his blue frock coat.

"Aidez-moi," he whispered before collapsing onto his knees.

"Go find your father, and quickly," Charlotte commanded as Sarah slid from her arms. The little girl took off running as soon as her feet touched the ground, crying out for someone to help. Charlotte looked back at the French soldier and reached out to touch his shoulder, pulling back his coat to look at the grisly stump that had once been his hand.

* * *

Gabrielle shoved the letters underneath her pillow as the door to her bedroom creaked opened. She blew out the candle before settling into her pillows, hoping that whoever it was would think she was asleep. The doctor had been coming in and out all day to check on her fever, with Potts ever standing guard in the corner to ensure she didn't say anything to give away his mistress's plot. But he had long since left and Potts had gone to bed. Who could possibly be coming into her room this late at night? Unless it was that horrible creature come to finish what it had started. Like a child, she wrapped her blanket around her, as though that alone could shield her from the monsters and ghouls that lived in wardrobes and underneath beds.

The Princess could hear the soft swish, swish of a woman's skirt brushing against the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to calm the panicked fluttering of her heart. It could be only one person: Queen Rose. She had not visited her all day - indeed, the only time she ever saw her was in the parlor for tea - and Gabrielle could not think of any reason why she would appear now. She wished she would just stay away. Just the thought of her made her stomach sick with dread.

A broad hand brushed against her cheek, feeling for a fever. The wrinkled skin was ice-cold and Gabrielle shivered at the touch, but the hand was kind and soft as it wiped away the beads of sweat that dotted her brow. It took her a moment to realize that the hand was not gloved; this woman was not Rose. Gabrielle blinked her eyes open and looked up to see an old woman smiling down at her. She had a round, fleshy face and a shock of white hair curling out from underneath an old-fashioned lace cap. "How are you feeling, my dear?" She asked in stilted French. The Princess could tell by her accent that she was not a native speaker.

With a jolt, Gabrielle sat up. She felt her head swim at the sudden movement, her stomach rolling in protest, but she had to make this woman understand. The Princess grasped her by the arms with clammy palms and croaked out, "Please, you have to help me. That woman - the one who calls herself Queen Rose - she's holding me captive. She wants to marry my brother-in-law and restore the monarchy in France. And there's a monster! Some sort of giant, insect with the face of a woman!"

"Alright, alright," the old woman cooed as she stroked her hair. "You'll lose your voice if you keep this up."

"You don't believe me," Gabrielle accused.

The woman smiled sadly. "I believe you," she answered. "I've seen the creature myself. You have nothing to fear. She won't hurt you. She's just... desperate."

Gabrielle frowned at the old woman, unsure if she was referring to the monster or Rose. "Will you help me escape? I need to return to the Empress. Who knows what Queen Rose has been telling her."

The old woman looked torn. "I am afraid I cannot."

"You could, you're just afraid to."

"No," the old woman shook her head. "I really can't. I am... bound... to my mistress."

"Is this magic?" Gabrielle whispered, leaning forward. "Cogsworth said- Is this place cursed? I know a bit about magic. My Godmother is some sort of sorceress; she told me she was a powerful fairy. I called to her, I begged her to help me, but she never came."

"She wouldn't be able to. The curse keeps the outside world away. Only those who Queen Rose wishes are allowed inside. The barrier is unbreakable; no witch or fairy could penetrate it," she explained. Gabrielle could feel the tears well up in her eyes at the words; if her Godmother couldn't help her then she didn't know who could. The old woman clucked and brushed away her tears. "Oh, it'll be alright. You mustn't lose hope. Curses can be broken."

"How?" Gabrielle asked.

Again, the old woman shook her head. "I cannot tell you that either. The only thing that I can say is to try to be understanding. Her Grace-"

"Her Grace?" Gabrielle interrupted with a snort. "Did you forget? She likes to imagine herself as a Queen! How could I possibly understand her? The woman has delusions of grandeur. She's mad. She is holding me captive. How could you ask that of me? I had allowed myself to be debased and used for years; I will not permit it to happen again! I am a Princess! She's not even a real Duchess!"

The old woman pulled away and Gabrielle could feel the guilt and shame well up inside her. She had never thrown her title around like that before; it was merely a stroke of luck that she wasn't still scrubbing the floors of her old childhood home. She had never wanted to be like her stepmother: desperate and driven by the need to obtain more power, more wealth. And yet, Queen Rose managed to bring out the most awful thoughts and feelings she kept locked inside of her. She feared that if she spent one more minute in the company of Queen Rose, she might lose herself. "I will be civil," Gabrielle stated, her throat burning from overuse. "But if there is a chance for me to escape, I will take it."

"That's all I ask, dear," the old woman replied. "I wouldn't have asked you to do this if I knew of any other way to break the curse. But who knows? You might come to sympathize with her. She has had a hard life. In the meantime, do not be afraid to ask my son for help."

Gabrielle blinked in surprise at the sudden mention of a son. "Your son? Do you mean Potts? Are you his mother?"

"Mrs. Potts, at your service. Formally, I am Her Grace's cook and housekeeper, but my Timothy will take over my duties when I am unavailable," she said. "He's been a good boy, I hope?"

"Hardly. He does whatever Queen Rose commands of him."

"I'm afraid he is as bound to her as I am. The curse limits what he is able to do."

"His cooking could use some work," Gabrielle stated lightly.

Mrs. Potts laughed. "Yes, well, that has never been a talent of his. Goodnight, my dear. If you want to try and break the curse then you'll need to rest and get yourself well again." She patted her hand and left, slipping out the door with hardly a sound. Gabrielle settled deep into her blankets, drowsy and tired and aching. She could hear the letters crinkle from underneath her pillow as she got comfortable. She wondered sleepily if Mrs. Potts and her son were descendants of the young Charlotte Potts she had been reading so much about. Then she was gone, into the land of dreams.

 


	7. Queen Anne's War

Gabrielle's eyes were still sticky with sleep when she wrenched them open at the burst of sharp morning light. She groaned as her consciousness returned and along with it the ache in her bones and the clammy, sweat-soaked feeling caused by her illness. "Finally, a little sun!" A woman's voice spoke out as she unceremoniously pulled open the heavy drapes. "I'd thought we would never see it again. Come, sit up, a little light will do you a world of good."

For one unthinking moment, Gabrielle thought that Mrs. Potts had returned, but she was not so lucky. Queen Rose stood by the window, gazing down at her with keen eyes. "You will recover in a few days. The doctor has assured me that it is only a bad cold. That is a relief. I worried you had caught pneumonia."

"I could only imagine how that might affect your plans if your hostage was to suddenly die... Whatever those plans might be," Gabrielle sneered as she pushed herself up against her pillows, quite forgetting that she had vowed not to speak to the woman until she was released.

"I don't take any joy in keeping you here," the woman answered. "But I must follow the plot."

"What do you mean 'you must follow the plot'? Are you saying this whole scheme is not all your doing?" Gabrielle demanded. Was Queen Rose not the mastermind behind all this? Who was pulling her strings then, and what did they have on her to make her obey? "Who else could benefit from you marrying my brother-in-law?"

Queen Rose laughed mirthlessly at that. "Benefit? Why, it doesn't benefit her at all! Who knows what goes on in her mind? And they call me mad!" She cackled before sobering quickly, her eyes darting about the room as though expecting an attack at any moment. "And the plot? Everyone knows what the plot is. It's a tale as old as time: Marry a prince, live happily ever after. Isn't that how the story goes?"

Gabrielle sat there in abject horror at the woman before her. Insane! Madness! "You wish to marry my brother-in-law simply because of the fairy tales you read as a child?"

The woman looked at her like a cat about to pounce, her hazel eyes piercing her to the bone. "Oh? Did you not receive your own fairy tale ending? Swept off your feet by your Prince Charming... You went from servant to princess, all in one day. One would think that you would have a little more faith in such things."

"My so-called Prince Charming died in the Battle of Sedan one year after we married, along with seventeen thousand Frenchmen. It cost us the war with Prussia. After that, France revolted and I had to flee here with what was left of my family. My husband... Charles-Napoleon... he lost both his legs at the knee from an artillery blast during the battle. It did not kill him out-right. He laid there for hours, unable to move. People could hear him calling out for help, but no one could reach him. He died alone and in excruciating pain," Gabrielle answered, her voice choking at the memories. "Was that the fairy tale ending you were looking for?"

For a long moment, Queen Rose simply stared at her. The madness was gone from her eyes, replaced with a sympathy Gabrielle had not yet seen from her before "I am sorry for your loss, I did not mean to mock your pain," she stated. "But, this is something that I must do. If there was any other way out I would have found it; unfortunately, no other of royal blood will take me. Something about my reputation, I suppose. Louis-Napoleon is my last hope. I think, given enough time, you will come to see things from my point of view. Everything will go much better for you if you were to help me."

"I will never help you. The Empress will be expecting my return soon. All I have to do is wait. You can only keep up this charade for so long; then, you will have to release me."

"Do I?" Queen Rose demanded, her tone icy and full of danger. Then she smiled beneath her veil, her eyes crinkling at the corners, before patting the Princess's leg. "Do get some rest. You're looking quite pale."

* * *

_October 29, 1701_

_I have become convinced that those damned Englishmen have never received a day of schooling in their lives. Lord knows they certainly cannot read a map. So far, we've been able to keep them from crossing the Kennebec River, but they are an obstinate people. I fear there will be much bloodshed before this war is over, but if it keeps the English out of my beloved Acadia then so be it. I wish you could see it, brother. The trees just go on for miles and there is always the smell of the sea in the crisp, cool air. The Wabanaki call this place the Dawnland; I could not think of a more fitting name. I have heard that Father has fallen ill and that you have left school to help Mother run the family business. Father is made of hardy stuff, do not worry. After living with Mother for thirty years it would take more than this to do him in! You'll be back to tinkering with those machines of yours in no time. Hopefully, this war will be over soon and I can start shipping furs again. That will help lighten your load, I think._

_We have received reports that an English battalion has arrived at a nearby town. Our Wabanaki scouts believe they are about to launch an invasion into New France. We intend on attacking the town and surprising them. I cannot tell you where or when, in case this letter is intercepted, but I wanted you to know. Do not despair, I have every confidence that I will survive the upcoming battle, but on the small chance I do not... Have faith, Maurice, everything will work out._

_Your brother,_

_Pierre_

Charlotte rode across leaf-covered fields and through thick forests as fast as her horse could take her. There was no time to rest; if she did not reach the town in time then the French soldier would surely die. Still, she could not help but take her eyes off the trail to look up at the large column of smoke that only seemed to grow thicker with each step she took. It filled her with a knowing sense of dread.

She understood little of the politics that seemed to have embroiled England and France and Spain. She knew that there was a dispute over the succession of the Spanish throne and from that one argument the tenuous relationship between the three kingdoms had collapsed. She did not know why King Louis XIV of France or their own Queen Anne of England would bother getting involved in Spanish affairs. Regardless, the war no longer seemed to be about the Spanish crown. They were fighting over religion, over land, over treaties. Not just in Europe, but in America too. No one seemed to know what land belonged to which kingdom. The borders were constantly being redrawn until they resembled a child's doodle. Charlotte wasn't even sure if her little farm was still in New England or New France now. She wondered if taking in the wounded Frenchman was considered treasonous. But what else could she have done? Close the door and leave him to die in their fields? Take a knife from the kitchen and finish him off? It was a monstrous thought.

Charlotte wiped the snowflakes from her face, only to frown in confusion at the way they crumbled and smeared thickly across her cheeks. Frowning, she looked down at her gloved fingers to see them covered in soot. Black ash was falling around her. A heavy smell hung in the air; it was a foul, charred stench, like a Christmas roast left on the fire for too long.

She pulled on the reigns to bring her horse to a stop as she stepped out of the forest and into the little town she had grown to know. Or what was left of it. The buildings were nothing more than empty shells- some still smoldering, but most had collapsed into piles of ash and burnt wood. Bodies littered the streets. Most of the corpses were dressed in either the red jackets of the English or in the French blue. Here and there she saw the broken figure of an Indian warrior; she knew that several tribes lived in the area, though she couldn't tell which one these men belonged to. Very rarely she saw one of her neighbors.

Charlotte sat astride her horse, her heart thundering, unsure of what she should do. Her eyes were riveted to the twisted body of Mrs. Black. She was kneeling, the top half of her body slumped forward with all her weight braced on her neck and head, dried blood blooming across her back. It was a hideous sight, all the more horrifying for the comical pose she had expired in. Charlotte wondered what had happened to the other villagers. Had they managed to escape? Where did they flee to? Or had they been trapped inside their homes as the fire raged through the town, burning their bodies until there was nothing left?

She turned her horse around and began the long journey back. There was nothing she could do here.

It was nightfall before she made it back to the farm. Mr. Potts had managed to drag the soldier onto their bed and was tending to his fever with little Sarah by his side. She stared at the bandaged stump with unabashed interest. Rachel was sitting in a chair, her back straight and tense, as she read aloud from the Bible; her small, suspicious eyes flickering between the soldier and the book. She had a sixth sense for trouble, and well she should since she was the cause for a good bit of it herself. The girl slammed the Bible shut the moment Charlotte came through the door and leapt to her feet. "Well?" She demanded. "Did you get the supplies?"

She tried to find the words, but nothing came out. What was she supposed to say? How could she explain what had happened? Mr. Potts glanced at her warily as the silence stretched on, unconsciously reaching out to pull Sarah close to him. "Charlotte?" He asked, his voice wavering. He knew that whatever news she brought, it was going to be terrible. With a jolt, Charlotte realized that it was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name. It had always been 'Miss Baker' or 'Mrs. Potts'. She supposed he meant it to be comforting.

"Everyone's dead," she said simply. They stared at her. They didn't understand. "Last night, when we thought we heard thunder. We waited and waited but the storm never came. There was just the constant roll of thunder far in the distance. It was a battle. There are dead soldiers in the streets, the town has been burned to the ground. There's nothing left."

For a moment, no one said anything. Then with a whisper Rachel broke the silence. "He did it," she said, her eyes staring wide at the unconscious man lying on their bed. "We should get rid of him."

"What?" Mr. Potts demanded as though he couldn't believe what he just heard.

Rachel's eyes flashed towards her father as she drew herself up to her full height. She looked like some wild barbarian woman in that moment, dangerous and so sure she was right. "It's obvious that this French soldier was part of the unit that attacked the town! He butchered our neighbors! We should throw him out to the wolves for what he did!"

"That would be murder," Mr. Potts snapped. "God has commanded-"

"God kills soldiers. He killed them at Jericho and Babylon. Anyway, it's not murder if it's during a war."

"There is no battle here!" He roared. "He is not a soldier now! What he is, is a wounded man who has sought shelter. He cannot defend himself! He's utterly helpless!"

"So, that negates what he did then? What about all the people who are dead now because of the French? Our neighbors weren't soldiers either but they're dead all the same!"

Mr. Potts shook his head, "It is God's will."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Rachel struck like an angry cobra. "It has nothing to do with God! It's man's will! You think God wanted Mother to die? You think God wanted all those people to die? You only use God as an excuse because you're too scared to face the real world!"

Charlotte was in front of Rachel before she even knew what she was doing. She stood there, a human barrier between the girl and her father. She could feel Rachel shaking against her back as she stared up at Mr. Potts, who was now looming above them, his hand raised. Whether it was fear that caused Rachel to tremble or anger, Charlotte couldn't say. For one long moment, his hand wavered in the air, none of them sure if he was going to strike them with it, before finally dropping it in anger. "This is my house. I am your father. I expect you to obey me completely."

"No."

For a brief second, surprise marred Mr. Potts's face, but just as quickly it faded into the same dour expression that he always wore. Charlotte didn't turn around but she could hear Rachel stomping through the cabin as she pulled on her boots and cloak. When the door slammed shut, she knew she was gone.

She and Mr. Potts nursed the soldier throughout the night, neither one sure if he was going to survive. When his fever finally broke at dawn, Charlotte stood up from her chair and stretched; there was no time to sleep, they had a full day of chores ahead of them. She headed out to the barn, milk pail in hand when she caught sight of a pair of gangly legs sticking out from the hay. "Rachel?" She called, setting down her pail. "It's good to see that you're getting along with Mamie enough to share a room with her." The cow lowed at them as Rachel dug her way through the little nest she made.

She sat up and glared at Charlotte, but the effect was somewhat lost seeing as how she was covered in bits of broken hay. "I'm not going back into that house," she insisted, already prepared for a fight.

"Alright," Charlotte agreed. "I'll see if I can't bring you a bit of breakfast."

Rachel stared up at her in confusion, obviously not expecting Charlotte to help her so readily. "Um... Thank you," she stuttered out.

Charlotte smiled as she sat on the little stool next to Rachel to begin her milking. "You're welcome."

 


	8. The Aunts

_Spain, 1701_

The young King of Spain collapsed into his chair, staring blankly at the mountain of parchment that his advisors had left for him on his desk: there were old treaties and marriage contracts and missives from the front, and they all seemed to stare back like a monster waiting to devour him. There was a dark, ugly feeling inside of him that seemed to only grow bigger and heavier at the sight. It whispered terrible things to him, telling him that he would never amount to anything. That he was a failure and that he might as well abdicate the throne now because he could never be a good ruler, not like his older brother, Louis.

Philippe rubbed his temples, trying to will away the fear and anxiety that had taken hold of him. A king shouldn't feel this way. A king should never doubt himself. Breathe deeply, keep calm, do not let these black thoughts take root. Command them, as a king should. Breathe deeply, keep calm.

_Plop!_

_Plop!_

_Plop!_

"Will you stop that?!" Philippe snapped at his little brother, who had taken the liberty to lounge idly across one of his chairs. Though a mere fifteen year old boy, he had already been named the Duke of Berry. Despite his title, however, he was still just a child, and a vexing one at that. The Duke turned to look at him, completely forgetting that he had just thrown a grape into the air. It bounced against his head, falling to the floor. Philippe sighed and shared a look with his Aunt Melusine; they were long used to the antics of the Duke. The old woman shook her head at the childish display, never ceasing in her embroidery. The delicate silk was cradled in her lap, her weather-beaten hands seemed to glide across its surface as she stitched the most beautiful pink roses the King had ever seen.

"I had a record going," Charles noted petulantly as he kicked the grape underneath the desk.

"Can you not eat grapes like a normal person?"

"I suppose, but there wouldn't be much fun in it."

"Do not talk to me of fun," Philippe sighed. "I hardly remember the meaning of the word."

"Why so sad, Felipe?"

Philippe could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise at the sound of that detestable name. "Do not call me that," he ground out. "It is bad enough when the Spaniards do it, I will not have my own kin refer to me as such." Felipe. He hated the way they drew out his name here, mangling the sound. _Fuh-lee-pay_. Why did they insist on changing it? Everything was so different here. The food, the culture; he couldn't even speak the language! He yearned to go home, back to France where he belonged. He was no Spaniard; he was a Frenchman. He had never even been to Spain before he had been crowned. He had been born in the Palace of Versailles and he had expected to die at Versailles as well. There was nothing else in the world like it. The palace and gardens seemed to stretch on forever, so vast that one could get lost in it. It was a beautiful little fairy world where the days were filled with sleepy contentment and childish pursuits, where nothing bad could ever happen. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his family. It was very likely that he wouldn't see his father or older brother again. All he had left was Charles and Melusine, but soon they would be returning to France, and then he would have no one.

"It's your name now, Nephew, whether you like it or not," Aunt Melusine commented, shooting the young man a sharp look. "You will do well to remember that these are your people."

Philippe looked down at his hands. It was funny how she could make him feel so much like a little boy with just a few words. He was the King of Spain, and yet he still did not dare cross the great Melusine. Only a fool would. Charles hoisted himself from the chair and sauntered over to him. "I do not know why it bothers you so much. A kingdom in exchange for a name. Not such a bad trade-off for a second son such as yourself, if I do say so."

"You think that now, but just wait until it is your turn."

Charles barked out a laugh. "It was a fluke that put you on the Spanish throne, I doubt such a thing could happen twice."

"You are my heir. If anything happened to me they'll be calling you King Carlos."

"Don't put ideas in my head," he joked.

"By all means," Philippe gestured to the documents strewn in front of him. "Perhaps you will do a better job at settling this war business. Look, here is a letter one of my spies intercepted. It's from Queen Anne to the Archduke of Austria, confirming their alliance against us. They'll do anything to keep the Bourbons off the Spanish throne. England has defeated Spain in battle before and Austria has the whole of the Holy Roman Empire backing them, not to mention that the Archduke's own claim to Spain is just as legitimate as my own and that half of my own kingdom would rather have him over me. So, then, Your Highness, what do you make of it?"

Charles's eyes had already glazed over by the time Philippe had finished. "Doesn't sound like you have much time for hunting," he commented.

"No, I do not. Nor do I have time to gamble or drink or whatever else it is that you do when you are not bothering me."

"I also play 'Find the Sausage' with the maids."

"I did not need to know that," Aunt Melusine stated primly. Charles at least had the decency to blush at her disapproving stare.

"Your Highness, Your Grace." One of Philippe's advisors strode into the room, bowing to the King and then the Duke. No such form of address was given to Melusine. The man's eyes seemed to look right through her as they glazed over her chair, as though the only people in the room were the King and his brother. No one could see Melusine if she did not wish them too. "I have just received word that your bride has arrived in Nice. She will be in Barcelona within a matter of days," the advisor announced.

"That is wonderful news!" Charles crowed. "I love weddings. All that feasting and dancing. That'll be sure to cheer you up." Charles had enough good cheer for the both of them as far as Philippe was concerned. Even his aunt looked giddy at the news. For Philippe, however, the black feeling in his stomach returned at the thought of the Savoyard princess. His grandfather, King Louis XIV, had pushed for the marriage, informing him that it was a strategic match. The girl's father, the Duke of Savoy, was an ally of Austria, but he seemed willing enough to switch sides now that his daughter was in a position to be Queen of Spain. He had used her like a pawn. A sudden of wave of nausea overcame him as Philippe realized that so too had his grandfather used him. Louis XIV was a man of genius who knew well how to wield power. He had built Versailles to be nothing more than a prison for the French nobility. There he kept them, blissfully unaware of how dependent they were on him. He had them leashed to him so that they could never act against him, and distracted them with all the pretty, glittering amusements that only Versailles could provide. Even now, miles away and the king of his own country, Philippe still continued to obey the commands of his grandfather. He wondered if Queen Anne was right; she had said that Spain with a Bourbon king would be nothing more than a pawn of France.

He felt a slender hand touch his arm and he looked down to see the wrinkled, old face of Melusine. "I know this is hard for you, but you will be made stronger for it. Think of it as a test of your worth and character. Only those who are worthy will come out whole in the end."

* * *

For Gabrielle, Versailles was the realm of forgotten dreams. By the time Napoleon III came to the throne, the once grand palace had long been converted into a museum, a pretty little showcase to display all the wonderful works of art that had been confiscated from the nobility during the Revolution. Her dear Charles once took her on a tour not long after they had married. That day had seemed magical; wandering through the most opulent palace ever constructed, gazing at the works of François Boucher and Madame Lebrun with Prince Charles-Napoleon on her arm, or as the ladies of the court liked to call him when they were feeling particularly witty, Prince Charming-Napoleon.

The Versailles described by the King of Spain in his letters was like a cloud on a windy day: the soft, white wisps drifting by, never knowing of the dangerous winds ready to rend them to shreds just around the corner. This was Versailles at its height, the crown jewel in King Louis XIV's diadem. Gabrielle sat upon her bed, the letters she had found piled around her in a circle, all of them a testament to the power and destruction of war. She could almost hear these long-lost voices rising up from the pages: Charlotte's plaintive sighs, the worried inquiries and gentle assurances of the brothers Maurice and Pierre, and now the Spanish King's melancholic musings. It was strange to read the innermost secret thoughts of such a powerful man. He was the second son of the Dauphin of France; he was never meant to rule. And then to think, Carlos II, the man who had been King of Spain before him, dying without a child and naming the French prince his heir in his will. It was the Duke of Berry though, the King's young brother, that gave her pause. She could not imagine how such a childish, loving creature could be the ancestor to the vindictive and manipulative Queen Rose.

She dropped the king's letter and moved on to another, one that was written in the sloppy, thoughtless scrawl of Maurice de Villeneuve, the brother of the French soldier Pierre. Her eyes raced across the yellowed paper, her mouth moving silently as she read the words of these long dead kings and peasants and soldiers...

* * *

_November 1, 1701_

_Dear Pierre, I wish you would return to Paris. It has been so long since I have seen or heard from you. Please tell me that you are well. I do not want you to die so far from home. I do not want you to die at all. There is so much that is going on, so much that I want you to be a part of. I am in love and I need my brother. Come home._

Maurice's thoughts wandered as the rabbit pelt was pressed against the two rollers. He didn't even feel the way his muscles protested as he cranked the machine, his mind too busy racing with ideas to pay any heed to something so trivial. He could see it so perfectly in his mind's eye: giant cogs, rotating against each other like the inner-workings of a clock, so that there was no need for a human body to keep the machine going. Brilliant dreams of machines and automatons splashed across his thoughts, fueled by the mercury-laden fog that had settled over his father's workshop.

"Hello,"

Maurice was startled out of his reverie at the sound of a high, soft voice behind him. He turned to see his young cousin, Élisabeth, carrying a basket full of pelts. There were a great many girls in Paris, but he had never seen any as beautiful as her. Her hair was thick and black and her hazel-colored eyes seemed to look right through him and into his very soul. "Hello," Maurice parroted dumbly back. As soon as they had left his mouth he wanted to take them and shove the right back in. Stupid, stupid. Why couldn't he be witty? He should say something interesting. Quick.

"It's a beautiful day out," he offered instead.

"It's snowing."

Maurice felt his face turn a brilliant scarlet. "Well, yes, I suppose it is."

"I like the snow," she offered, no more graceful than he. Several seconds passed silently between them, each too mortified at how silly they must sound to attempt to speak, leaving them to flounder in each other's presence. Finally, after summoning some hint of bravery from within, Élisabeth spoke, "I, ah, I brought you some more rabbit furs. Auntie thought it prudent to invest in rabbit since it might be a while before we can get a new shipment of beaver pelts from America... what with the war and all. But you knew all that. About the war." Her cheeks and ears grew steadily red with embarrassment as she continued on.

"Yes, I'm expecting a letter from Pierre any day now," Maurice stated, happy to contribute to the conversation. "He mentioned a battle in his last post."

"I'm sure he's fine!" Élisabeth was quick to assure him. "The English will beaten back soon, I know it."

"Élisabeth! Honestly, how long does it take for you to do a simple errand?" Maurice's mother bellowed as she entered the workshop. Alexandrine de Villeneuve might have once looked like her niece, but the years had turned her black hair gray and her slender frame portly. Her eyes were the same color, though there was a ruthless edge to those hazel-colored orbs. She regarded the young girl critically, "Well? What are you waiting for? Go on!"

"Yes, Auntie," Élisabeth mumbled, dropping the basket and darting out of the workshop like the hounds of hell were biting at her heels.

Maurice ducked his head, but it was no use. His mother swiveled her gaze onto him as she sneered. Maurice couldn't help but feel as though he was nothing more than a mouse in a field and his mother, the hawk, was swooping ever closer to him, a frightening black shadow waiting to devour him whole. "I wouldn't think about it if I were you," she warned.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. You're not stupid, despite what other people may think. Élisabeth is family and God knows I love the girl, but she is a charity case and that is all that she can ever be to you. She has no parents and no dowry; who else would be willing to take her except her soft-hearted cousin? We have made a name for ourselves with our trade. Our star is on the rise, but if we want to stay in the game then we must be smart about things. You could marry an heiress, or possibly even the daughter of a minor noble who is looking to fill his coffers. Why do you think Élisabeth is interested in you? You are not handsome or charming, but you do have money and with your father's health the way it is you may come into your inheritance sooner than you might want."

"Élisabeth isn't like that," Maurice insisted.

Alexandrine snorted. "Any girl who grew up poor and cold and hungry is like that. I-" An anguished wail from the apartment above interrupted whatever his mother had been planning to say. Maurice listened for a moment to the delirious, terrified screams of his mad father. He could see him in his mind: weak and feeble, his hands shaking from whatever frightening images his illness conjured up. The man couldn't even recognize his own family anymore. Alexandrine gave a bone-weary sigh, "I should get back. We will continue this discussion later."

Maurice turned back to his rollers, the sense of serenity that had once filled him dissipated as thoughts of his father and brother and mother and cousin filled his mind until they crowded his thoughts, pushing out the wonderful dreams of machines and cogs and metal until there was nothing left.


	9. Melusine Comes

_Thump! Thump!_

Gabrielle could feel her heart beating in time to the music. It made her feel anxious and weak. She loved dances and balls and good music and sweet wine. But there was something wrong. Gabrielle looked out at the dancers twirling across the floor, wondering what it could be that had frightened her so.

_Thump! Thump!_

Suddenly the music slowed to a stop and dancers looked about in confusion, trying to find the cause. The wide double doors flew open and with a hushed gasp the dancers scurried out of the away. They lingered beneath the beautiful silver mirrors of the grand galerie des glaces. There they could watch with rapt attention as a man and woman glided through the hall. The courtiers bowed as they passed, a few daring enough to sneak a peek at the couple. The woman was beautiful in a gown made of gold and her brown, powdered hair was piled high on top of her head in an elaborate coif. She looked like she had stepped out of the mists of time, out of the halls of ancient Versailles and into the present day. She looked like a ghost. Her partner, though, there was something strange about him...

_Thump! Thump!_

Gabrielle tried to peek around the bewitched crowd, but the man's face was always just out of sight. "Careful," warned a tall, lanky man beside her. Gabrielle ignored him and continued to push her way through the throng of courtiers, determined to get a better look at the pair. She kept her eyes glued to the man, but always - always - was his back turned to her. The musicians beat against their drums and Gabrielle held her breath as the man slowly swiveled his head, his blue eyes piercing into her.

_Thump! Thump!_

Her breath was caught in her throat, strangling her as the man turned to look at her. She could see glimpses of brown fur and curved horns and sharp fangs. And still the musicians beat upon their drums. Wait... That was wrong. The musicians had since ceased playing their instruments long ago, so where was that thumping coming from? She had heard it before... Gabrielle could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she realized that she was alone in the Mirrored Hall of Versailles. The courtiers had disappeared, the mysterious couple had vanished, leaving her all alone with that monster, the moth-woman. It was there, right behind her. She knew it was. She could feel it in her bones. Gabrielle turned her head and looked right into the its hazel-colored eyes.

_Thump! Thump!_

Gabrielle wrenched her eyes open and stared in a daze at the ceiling above her. The early morning light had fallen across her bed, lighting up the dark room and illuminating the small particles of dust that floated gently above her. She watched the dust drift by unseeingly, her thoughts tangled in a web. She could still hear the mysterious thumping sound ringing in her ears, her blood pulsing through her veins in time to the rhythm. It was a nightmare; that was all it was. Gabrielle breathed out and pushed herself up, still shaking with terror, when she grew still. Queen Rose sat at the end of her bed, staring out the window blankly, a breakfast tray resting limply in her hands. There was a haunted look to those hazel eyes that shook Gabrielle to her bones. "What are you doing here?" She asked.

For a long moment, Queen Rose didn't answer. It was like she couldn't even hear her. Then, she turned towards her and with dull eyes said, "My aunt, Melusine, will be coming for dinner. As you are well enough now, I expect you to be in the dining hall at eight o'clock sharp and suitably attired." And without another word, she stood up and placed the tray at the end of her bed before sweeping from the room. She looked as imperious as ever with her head held high and her pink Chinoiserie robe trailing behind her.

Gabrielle gaped after her. Was Queen Rose actually allowing a guest to breach the magical barrier that surrounded her manor? The only other time that had happened was when the doctor came to tend to her during her illness. Why would she allow it now? She must know that Gabrielle would take any chance offered to escape and this 'Melusine' just might be willing to help her. She obviously had some sort of power over Queen Rose; the woman had looked terrified at the thought of her coming here. A sudden thought occurred to her: perhaps Queen Rose couldn't keep her out. Mrs. Potts had told her that the Queen Rose had control over the barrier, that only those she allowed were permitted through. But if this Melusine woman could come and go as she pleased then... then her powers must be far more potent than her niece's. Maybe whatever curse that had descended upon this place had no affect on her.

Or maybe she was the cause of the curse itself.

_Thump! Thump!_

An icy hand wrapped around her heart at the sound that echoed through her room. She sat so still on top of her bed that she barely even breathed, her skin prickling as a cold sweat broke out across her brow. It wasn't just a dream. The banging had returned. The last time she had heard it she had been attempting to flee the manor. The noise had reverberated the walls, almost deafening her, as it chased her out.

Gabrielle swallowed down the rising fear and stood up, reaching out to press her hand against the cold, stone wall.

_Thump! Thump!_

There was something behind there.

She knew it wasn't rats or mice or any other creature that liked to make its home behind the walls of houses. She knew what those animals sounded like. This was something big...

Gabrielle banged her palm against the stone.

 _Thump! Thump!_ came the resounding reply.

… And intelligent.

Immediately she thought of the monster she had seen. It was absurd. Something that large couldn't possibly be living in the walls! It was the size of a full-grown woman, after all. And yet, the fact that it existed at all was impossible. Monsters were not real, and neither were fairy godmothers for that matter, but she had seen both with her own eyes. If it was the monster she had seen then maybe it was simply trying to communicate with her. After all, it had not harmed her that night it chased her through the manor and Mrs. Potts had assured her that the creature was harmless. Determined not to let her fear get the better of her this time, Gabrielle circled the room, beating on the wall. The returned thumping followed her every step, only stopping once she reached the fireplace. Hesitantly, Gabrielle peeked inside the dark, smoky chimney; the dying embers still gave off a little heat from beneath the blanket of ashes. There was nothing there, however, not even so much as a bat.

Undeterred, Gabrielle fetched the breakfast Queen Rose had left for her. It was good, hardy Scottish fare: sausage, bacon, eggs, and baked beans with a side of toast and a cup of tea. She placed the toast in a kerchief and set it gently against the wall, before beating against it once more. No reply. She had no idea where the entrance to its hiding place might be, but hopefully it would understand and come to this room. Her stepsisters used to tease her about the mice she kept as pets. They would tell her that she was disgusting for petting them and letting them crawl up and down her arms, and that the only reason they went near her was because she was as timid and dull as any rodent. It took her years to realize that the only reason why Anastasia and Drizella believed such things was because they had no idea how to love something, not an animal and certainly not another human being. Not even her stepmother's old, hateful cat would let them pet him. It did not take much to gain the trust and adoration of a creature as simple as a mouse; all she did was feed them and treat them kindly and never, ever gave them a reason to fear her. Perhaps it would be the same for this poor monster that seemed as trapped within these manor walls as she was.

A sharp rap broke her out of her reverie. "Enter," Gabrielle called out, frowning. It could only be one person, the butler Potts. What could he want with her? Since her illness, he had left her more or less to her own affairs, so long as she stayed within the manor. When they did see each other, he seemed... timid. Almost apologetic. It made her feel gratified, vindictive even. It was a horrible thing to think, she knew she should try to be more understanding, but then... as far as she was concerned, he had good reason to feel guilty. He had only helped kidnap her, after all. Mrs. Potts had confessed that the curse had bound him to Queen Rose, but she couldn't help but feel that he could do more to help her, that he was deliberately holding something back. He could give her a hint, at least, something for her to go on. She felt like she was grasping at straws.

Potts stepped briskly inside, his arms laden with a large package. "A gift from Her Excellency, Melusine," he stated stiffly. Bitterly.

How curious. So this woman was already aware that she was here. Why would this Melusine woman give her a present? Did she think she was Queen Rose's willing guest? Gabrielle lifted the lid of the garment box, pushing away the delicate tissue paper. For a moment she could do nothing but stare uncomprehendingly at what lay before her. Gabrielle clutched her cheek in shock and denial, stepping away from where Potts had deposited the package next to her abandoned breakfast. A heavy feeling grew in the pit of her stomach as she looked down at the gift. It was a dress made of heavy silver silk and white crinoline, slightly out of fashion now with its elliptical skirt and wide petticoat. But then she shouldn't be too surprised if it was a little out date, it had been nearly five years ago since she last wore it. It was the same dress her Godmother had made for her on the night of the royal ball. And there, she could see the very same pair of glass slippers nestled against the iridescent fabric.

"How could she have known?" Gabrielle gasped.

"Pardon?"

"Those shoes, this dress... I wore them years ago, the night I met my husband." Gabrielle looked up at him, aghast. "How could she have known? I don't understand."

Potts gave her a sardonic little smile that was agonized and penitent and full of so many other emotions that Gabrielle couldn't name. "Don't you know?" He asked. "Fairies are notorious gossips."

* * *

Gabrielle had just closed her bedroom door when she was accosted by Queen Rose. The older woman came up behind her and slipped her arm in hers, like they were old-time friends out for a stroll. Gabrielle shivered at the touch; the woman's arm felt strangely brittle, like it could be plucked off if she was not careful. "I do hope you will forgive me for the way I acted this morning," Queen Rose sighed, her voice muffled by the veil. She was dressed sumptuously; her turbans and robes more elaborate and colorful than any Gabrielle had ever seen her wear before. "I must have given you quite a scare when you found me sitting in your room like that. I am afraid I was quite out of my mind at the time. My dear aunt had given me a bit of a shock, arriving out of the blue like this with only a few hours notice. She can be quite the terror when she wants to be." Queen Rose laughed gaily at this as they languidly made their way towards the dining hall. Despite her light and airy words, there was a sharp edge to her voice and with every step they took Gabrielle could feel her companion grow stiff and rigid with fear.

"Be cautious, be vigilant, be wise," Queen Rose whispered to her just as the wide double doors were thrown open, revealing the elusive Aunt Melusine that had sent such fear through her host's heart.

The woman was nothing like what Gabrielle imagined. She had expected an old woman, shriveled and hunched over with a mean look to her face. After all, Queen Rose herself was at least thirty-five years of age, so any aunt of hers must be older than she by at least a decade. Yet, the woman who sat at the end of the long dining table looked as young as Gabrielle and twice as beautiful. She was tall, at least six feet, with long golden hair that nearly reached to the floor. Her dress was eccentric, far more so than her niece's. She wore a gown made of green brocade with wide, bell sleeves and a thick satin belt tied at her waist. She looked like a medieval queen, or a John William Waterhouse painting come to life.

Potts moved quickly to pull out Queen Rose's chair at the other end of the table and, to Gabrielle's shock, she saw Cogsworth do the same for her. She had not seen the man since the night she had tried to escape, but now he was here along with Mrs. Potts and the pretty maid that she had only caught a glimpse of before now. They stood against the wall, the hands limp at their sides, completely silent and staring stonily ahead. Ready to obey the whims of their mistress. Gabrielle settled into her chair beside Queen Rose, already on edge. Who knows what disaster this dinner would wrought.

"You do not have to keep stealing glances at me like that," Melusine stated suddenly, looking at Gabrielle with a twinkle in her eye as Potts laid out the evening meal before them. "If you are curious you need only to ask. I won't bite."

She flushed at having been caught and tried to think of a delicate way of expressing her thoughts. "It is just that you look so young, I would not have thought you old enough to be an aunt."

Queen Rose barked out a laugh at that. "Young? This old crone?" She demanded. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to be mad."

Melusine shook her head sadly at her niece's outburst. "Some people only see what they want to see," she whispered conspiratorially to Gabrielle. "My line is particularly guilty of not recognizing true beauty when they see it. They are so concerned with the way something looks on the outside, that they can spare no thought for what a person might hold on the inside. How does that old English saying go? They cannot see the forest for the trees.

"Speaking of physical beauty," Melusine continued. "I had hoped you might wear the dress I had sent you for dinner. Mabily assured me that you would like it. You would look so lovely dressed in a bit of color, I think."

There was something predatory about the way Melusine smiled at her that made Gabrielle all the more glad she had discarded the silver gown in favor of her usual attire. "I cannot wear color, it would be inappropriate," she answered. "My father-in-law recently died. I am in mourning."

"Proper, decorous, and sensitive!" Melusine crowed, lifting her glass of wine in good cheer. She winked at Queen Rose. "Oh, I like this one."

A thousand questions rose up in Gabrielle's mind. How did she know about the dress? Who was this Mabily person she had mentioned? What did she know of the curse? None of them seemed right, though. There was something about this strange woman that told her she would be of no help, that she might even be dangerous. Perhaps it was the way the servants seemed as still and silent as the dead, or the way that Queen Rose looked at her like a wild animal looks at a hunter. She felt a surprising rush of sympathy for the mad queen and her cowed servants; she didn't understand it, but she didn't like seeing her so afraid. Whoever could subdue a woman as powerful as Queen Rose must be dangerous indeed. It might be best to try to take a more subtle approach. So, instead, she said, "How did you know to send the gift? Not many people are aware that I am staying here."

It seemed to have caught Melusine off-guard. "Well, what kind of aunt would I be if I didn't know the affairs of my favorite niece?" She asked. "I have been told that I can be quite meddlesome. Speaking of which, you haven't touched a single bite, my dear Rose. You really should eat more."

Something dark and deadly flashed through Rose's eyes, her madness lighting them up with fevered passion. "We must not look at goblin men," she whispered. "We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: who knows upon what soil they fed, their hungry thirsty roots?"

"Oh, enough with the dramatics!" Melusine sighed in exasperation. "You're not Sarah Bernhardt, you know."

"But Hades gave her, stealthily, the honey-sweet berry of the pomegranate to eat."

Gabrielle pulled away at the narrowed, heated look Melusine fixed upon the unrepentant queen. "Enough! So, first I am a goblin, and now I am the King of the Dead? Have you lost all your senses? You dare speak that way to me, child? I had hoped these past few years would have taught you something, but you are just as foolish and cruel as you ever were. I have given you everything - everything - you needed and yet you continue to wallow in your own self-pity, refusing to see that the fault might lie with you. I took more pity on you than I should have. I thought you needed a softer touch than Louis, and that was my mistake. Spare the rod and spoil the child. I suppose I should just take back these gifts," she snapped, gesturing wildly towards the servants who remained quiet against the wall. "It is not as though-"

Melusine broke off, her eyes settling on the servants as though seeing them for the first. "Rose," she asked. "Where is Lumière?"

At that, a dark chuckle erupted from Queen Rose's throat, punctuated by a sharp clap of thunder.

Melusine pushed herself away from the table, staring about her in horror. "That is no natural phenomena. Rose, what have you done you stupid girl?"

"Did you think I wouldn't find a way to fight back?" Rose asked. The sound of thunder seemed to echo throughout the entire manor. It wasn't coming from outside, it was here all around them! Gabrielle sat frozen in her chair, terrified and bewildered as the scene unfolded before her. "I'm not like the rest of my family. I'm not just going to give up. You can't control me anymore."

"Your Grace, what are you doing?!" Mrs. Potts screamed over the din, as Cogsworth and the little maid fled the room. The roar of thunder had reached a crescendo. A wild, furious wind whipped up around them, leaving Gabrielle feeling as though she were caught up in a tornado. Mrs. Potts's son clutched at her arm, trying to pull her back as she continued to scream. "All you needed to do was just learn how to love! That was all! Why are you doing this?! Why didn't you listen to us?!"

With the flick of her hand, Queen Rose sent Mrs. Potts and her son hurling from the dining room, the door slamming behind them with such force that it splintered the wood.

"Princess," Melusine whispered, holding out her hand towards her in desperation. "Please, come here. Get away from Rose. I'm sorry. I didn't realize. She's dangerous."

"No," Queen Rose said, clutching her arm before Gabrielle could rise. Her hand was as cold as ice; it felt like all the heat in her body was being sucked out of her from that one point of contact. "She will use you against me. I know you have no reason to trust me, but please... help me."

Those hazel eyes were staring at her with such a look of hope and desperation that Gabrielle almost said yes right then, but before she could do anything she felt her soul - her very essence - seeping from her body and she was falling down, down, down...


	10. The Three Fairies

Gabrielle wrenched her eyes open, her heart thundering in her chest as the last echoes of a monstrous dream faded from her mind. Even as she glanced about the room, assuring herself that she was alright, that everything was in its place, her sense of terror remained unabated. Something was wrong. Gabrielle laid still and unmoving in her bed, trying to find the source of her unease. She blinked against the bright light streaming through her window, and then she realized. The sun was already high in the sky; Potts should have summoned her for breakfast long before now and for lunch as well. She should be sitting in Queen Rose's parlor, drinking tea and listening to whatever rambling thought happened to pop in the mad woman's head. But they never came. She was alone, well and truly alone. The manor was as quiet as a crypt, completely devoid of any signs of life. The presence of Queen Rose used hang over her like a dark shadow, like her stepmother's cruel gaze once had; but her sudden disappearance was just as frightening. Where could she have gone? What evil plot of hers was unfolding?

Gabrielle leapt from her bed as memories of the night before came rushing back to her. She went to her vanity, hurriedly flinging on her corset. She needed to get dressed; she needed to find out just what was going on. She had just buttoned up her skirt when she caught sight of a handkerchief resting beside her brush. It was the same one that she had wrapped the bit of toast in just the other day. She had left it on the floor for the monster, as a peace offering of sorts. The toast remained untouched, but there was something else there, something that had not been there before. It was a letter made of heavy parchment, sealed and stamped in red wax. She picked it up, running her fingers along the edge, before breaking the seal. There were several pages inside, some yellowed and torn with age. She read the first page, her eyes lingering over the script.

_Your Imperial Highness,_

_I am sorry, but I must be brief. Queen Rose has ordered that I take her to London immediately. I do not know what she has planned, but I fear it will be disastrous. I hate the idea of abandoning you in your condition; I do not know what effect last night has wrought upon you, but I must do as Queen Rose commands. Cogsworth will send word if you are not well by nightfall. She does not know that I am writing to you, but you need to be made aware. The woman you dined with last night - Melusine - was no ordinary creature. She is the one who placed this curse upon us. I cannot say more about that, magic prevents me from revealing everything to an outsider. But I can tell you that during her imprisonment, Queen Rose came up with a plan to break it. Melusine had not realized that Queen Rose possessed her own magical talents, enough to combat whatever curse she inflicted upon her. But Queen Rose is no fey. She needs some sort of power source to draw from, and so she bound one of the servants to this house in order to pull her energy from him. Do not think him a helpless prisoner, though; he willingly allowed this to happen. The curse affects us just as much as it affects her and he had his own reasons for wanting this madness to end. At the time, we thought it would be enough, but it wasn't, not nearly. I feared then that she would turn on the others, sealing them away as well to suck out what little life had been given back to them. They do not know what she has done- what we have done._

_Then you came and at first I didn't know why she had summoned you. It was only later when I found out the reason. Last night - do you remember everything that had happened last night? - Queen Rose was able to draw upon a large well of energy from you. I still do not completely understand how or why, but it does not matter. She has a use for you, and I am not sure if that is a good thing. She has grown so angry and unpredictable that I no longer think it would be wise to free her, even if it means dooming myself and the others to spend the rest of eternity trapped here by the curse._

_I know you have found some letters in your exploring; I saw them in the pocket of your robe the night you collapsed. There are some letters missing, though. You will need them if you want to understand the full story. I have left them for here for you. They will help, I am sure of it._

_As for the toast I found on your bedroom floor... Well, I prefer to refrain from commenting on the habits of others._

_Potts_

Gabrielle sighed and tossed her toast out the window for the crows to devour. Perhaps the monster did not eat bread. It had a sort of proboscis, like a butterfly or moth, so it may only be able to eat nectar. She could leave some flowers for it; she remembered seeing a beautiful rose in the garden still in full bloom despite the snow and wind and cold.

With a confused frown, Gabrielle sat at her vanity and began to read the letters that Potts had left for her.

* * *

Charlotte carefully unwrapped the bandage from what was left of Monsieur Pierre de Villeneuve's mangled hand. The putrid smell turned her stomach as she examined the wound. It still festered, though at least the man seemed well enough despite the infection. She worried, though, that more flesh would have to be excised from the stump.

"Ah, do not look that way at me, Madame Potts," the soldier said, cracking a pained smile. "It is alright. I am right-handed, you see."

"Well, if you weren't before, you are now," she answered curtly. The Frenchman was grateful for their care and pleasant enough, but Charlotte couldn't allow herself to care too deeply for the soldier. She hadn't know her neighbors well, but it still felt like an insult to their memory to befriend their killer.

Sarah gasped and watched with rapture as Charlotte busied with her work. It was positively ghoulish the way the young girl seemed fascinated by the gore. "You know, I could really go for a glass of whiskey," Pierre groaned as Charlotte finished cleaning the wound.

"Tea first, then whiskey," Charlotte retorted, wrapping the wound in fresh bandages.

"I'll get it!"

Charlotte grimaced as Sarah went to fetch the cup of tea she had made. She carried the cup with both hands, her eyes constantly flitting between it and her feet and yet she still managed to spill much of it onto the floor. "Very good, my darling," Charlotte said as she took it from her. "Sit up."

Pierre did so with a pained gasp, taking the cup and flinging the hot tea down his throat. "Mon Dieu," he said. "C'est terrible."

"It's willow bark. It will help with the pain and the infection."

"I don't like it either," Sarah whispered to him.

Charlotte left his bedside to fetch the bottle of corn whiskey that she had been feeding him intermittently to dull the pain. "Alright, you can have your whiskey. Not too much, or it will thin the blood."

He swallowed it down with a sigh, savoring the relief it brought him. Charlotte kept an eye on him as she moved to sit in the old chair next to the hearth that Mr. Potts had attached rockers to. She moved back and forth as she darned her husband's stockings, always mindful of their guest. Little Sarah felt no such sense of anxiety or apprehension about the wounded soldier. She had taken to him like a playmate, showing him all of the little cornhusk dolls Rachel had made her and telling him their names. Pierre took it with good humor, though it simply may have been because he feared angering them rather than out of any affection for the child. They were enemies after all, and he was helpless and dependent upon them. Perhaps he was scared that they would leave him to the wolves if he caused too much trouble. "Do you know any stories?" Sarah asked as she patted her doll.

"Sarah, leave him be. He needs rest."

"No, it is alright." Pierre waved her off clumsily. The whiskey was already beginning to dull his senses. "I know plenty of stories. Have you heard the one about the three fairy sisters?"

Sarah shook her head, her eyes as wide as saucers at the mention of fairies. "Papa doesn't like stories about magic," she explained.

Pierre chucked her under the chin and grinned. "Well, you're in for treat. Let me see if I can remember it... A long, long time ago, there lived three fairies, all sisters, named Mabily, Maleficent, and Melusine. They were not the little fairies made of starlight and dust that you sometimes see in the forests. No, they were numbered amongst the Great Fairies, the daughters of Queen Titania herself, and as tall as any man. You see, the more power a fairy gains, the bigger she grows and these three sisters were very powerful indeed.

"Now, the sisters had gone out into the mortal world to find husbands for themselves. The youngest, Melusine, fell in love with a nobleman named Robert of France. She promised to make him a king if he married her. Maleficent, the middle sister, desired a man named Arnulf, who was a knight from Carinthia. She promised to make him an emperor if he married her. Finally, the eldest, Mabily, fell in love with a farmer. She gave him nothing for marrying her, only promising that she would make him happy.

"All three sisters kept their word. At that time, Charles the Simple was King of France. He had made quite a few enemies amongst his vassals by taking their lands and castles and giving them to his lover, Hagano. Melusine told Robert that if he rose up in battle against him she would use her magic to ensure his victory. Always by his side, she rode into every battle and eventually overthrew Charles, crowning her husband King Robert I of France.

"Now, for her husband, Maleficent disguised herself as a cardinal and went to Rome where she became the Pope's most trusted advisor. She whispered dark lies into his ear, seeding distrust between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. The Pope sent a letter to Arnulf, promising that if he deposed the Emperor then he would give him the throne. After Arnulf defeated him in battle, the Emperor fled to Taro seeking refuge, only to find Maleficent waiting for him. She killed him and Arnulf became the new Holy Roman Emperor.

"Mabily, in contrast, lived a simple life as a human woman. She helped her husband tend his fields and kept his house and raised their children. He showered her with love and affection and the two lovers were very happy together, just as she had said they would be. Unfortunately, these happy times did not last. Fairies are immortal, you see, but we poor men are not. The farmer grew old and withered, while Mabily stayed young and beautiful. When Mabily's husband finally died, she kissed her children goodbye - by then grown with wives and husbands of their own - and left the mortal world for her mother's kingdom. She occasionally returned to visit her grandchildren and great-grandchildren and all her many descendants, bringing with her gifts of magic from the court of Titania.

"Robert's reign as king came to an end when the deposed Charles returned to France with an army. He attacked and Robert was killed during the Battle of Soissons. Melusine was heartbroken; the only comfort she had left was her children, who reminded her so much of her beloved husband. Unlike Mabily, Melusine could not bear to leave the mortal world. She stayed with them for centuries, watching over them like a hawk guards her chicks. Even now there are whispers of a strange, old hag that can be seen lurking within the confines of Versailles like a ghost.

"Maleficent, however, received the worst fate of the three. The dark magic that Maleficent practiced infected her like a disease, turning the beautiful fairy into a fearful dragon. She was able to hide her appearance with spells, except on Sundays. That was the day when she took her bath and the charm would wash off along with the all the dirt and grime, revealing her true visage. She told Arnulf that he must never visit her bath, lest he regret it. Arnulf was curious, though, and peeked in on her one Sunday evening. To his horror, he saw his beautiful wife melt away into a hideous dragon. Disgusted, Arnulf cast her out and married Ota, the daughter of a count, instead."

"Wait," Charlotte interrupted, her sewing long since forgotten. "I always heard that it was Melusine who was the dragon, that she had dabbled in dark arts as well and that a curse ran through her line because of it. They say that her descendants transform into all sorts of hideous monsters when the moon is full," she whispered dramatically as she looked about the cabin in mock fear, which only made Sarah giggle.

"No, no," Pierre corrected. "It was most certainly Maleficent. My grandmother told me so."

Charlotte snorted. "Well, we have grandmothers in England as well, and mine told me it was Melusine."

"Do not listen to your mother," Pierre advised Sarah. "Trust me, it was most certainly Maleficent who was exiled. She vowed revenge on Arnulf and Ota, cursing them and their daughter Glismut. Her vengeance, however, could never be sated and she followed their descendants like a ghost, causing harm and mayhem wherever she went."

Pierre stopped speaking the moment the door slowly, hesitantly creaked open. Charlotte didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. "Come on in," she called. "Your father is out chopping wood."

Rachel stepped inside then, emboldened now that she knew he was not in the house, swinging her arms as though she had never felt any fear. Charlotte nodded to a basket filled with chicken and cornbread and pie. "I've left you some dinner. I wish you'd come back inside. It's getting colder."

"I will not sleep under the same roof as him," Rachel coldly replied, narrowing her eyes at the French soldier who was studiously looking away. "And I won't come back anyway until Papa apologizes." She grabbed the basket and gave a quick, curt nod at her stepmother. "Thank you." She shifted from foot to foot, as though unsure if she should say anything else, before fleeing the house in her awkwardness.

"Wait! Millie wants to tuck you in for the night!" Sarah exclaimed, waving her doll in the air as she took off running after the older girl.

"Sometimes I fear she will smother me in my sleep," Pierre commented, his eyes lingering on the door that the sisters had just ran out of. Then he turned to Charlotte, his gaze curious. "Forgive me for being impertinent, but you do not look much older than your daughter."

"She is my stepdaughter," Charlotte answered stiffly, snatching up her husband's stockings again to give her hands something to do.

"Yes, I figured as much. I simply meant that it must be difficult for the both of you, being so close in age. How did you and the good Mr. Potts meet?"

Charlotte shrugged. "He came to England looking for a wife while I was looking for a husband. My family was on good terms with his brother and thought we would make a nice match."

"What an efficient way to go about marriage!" Pierre quipped with a laugh. "I do not think I could ever marry someone I did not love."

For a few seconds Charlotte could only a stare at him, her face flushing bright red at the insult. Then, quite suddenly, she threw her darning to the floor and stood up, hands on her hips and looming over the bedridden man. "I made my own choices and I stand by them! My marriage might not be some great romance, but I did what I had to do for my family and if you do not think that is love then you are beyond help!"

Pierre could say nothing against her tirade, only lie there in shock, his mouth slightly agape. Charlotte stood there for a moment, trying to temper the rage inside of her. Her marriage with Mr. Potts was like a festering wound and Pierre's words had done nothing but pour salt on it. It was becoming increasingly clear to Charlotte that her husband cared nothing for her. The only woman he would ever love - and perhaps the only person that he had ever loved in his entire life - was the late Rebecca Potts. He rarely spoke to Charlotte outside of what was required of the running of the household - what did they need from town, were the chores completed, what had Rachel done now - and when he did it was always to impart some religious instruction. He never told her his thoughts or feelings; no, he saved that for God. Charlotte had never cared about how or to whom her neighbors had prayed to. If they were Catholic, or Jewish, or Quaker, it did not matter to her. She saw no reason to shun a person for so little a reason. All that mattered was the goodness in their hearts. Yet, whenever she saw Mr. Potts clutching at his Bible, as though he had no family, no one at all to turn to besides God, she couldn't help but feel a startling, bitter hatred where there was none before. What purpose could she possibly have if not to be his helpmate? Was she just then suppose to clean his house and give him children, and that would be the end of that?

"I did not mean any offense," Pierre offered quietly. "No one should mock you for your choices. It is just... my mother wishes for me to marry this girl. She comes from a good Parisian family, very rich. It would help our family tremendously if I were to do it, but I... I am not as strong as you. My family thinks I will return to France after the war, but I do not think I will ever go back. I've met a girl, you see, a Wabanaki woman. Her name is Niben." When he spoke he had this faraway look to his eyes that Charlotte doubted had little to do with the alcohol he had drank.

"We all have our different paths to take," Charlotte offered and returned to chair as Pierre settled down to sleep.


	11. The Dawnland

_1705... 1713... 1722..._

The years rolled passed like a soft, gentle stream, the running waters washing away Charlotte's youth and beauty. She had spent a lifetime trapped inside Mr. Potts's cabin, a prisoner of her own life. Oh, it had grown over the years until it became quite the charming little farmhouse, and yet no matter how many rooms he added it still felt like a cage. Even now, whenever Charlotte happened to pass by a mirror, she would find herself standing in shock at the stranger looking out at her. Those wrinkles had not been there before, that snowy hair did not belong to her. How could she have gotten old so quickly? She was nearly forty years old, she felt ancient.

She felt as though she was merely playing the part of Mrs. Charlotte Potts, an actor on the stage waiting for the curtains to close so that she might take her leave to live her real life. She doubted if Mr. Potts would even notice if she left. Oh, he would miss the warm, cooked meals and the tidy home, but never would he miss her. She could do it, she could leave this forsaken country, abandon both husband and home and just go. She could go to Paris. Every spring her good friend Pierre would return to her, his lame hand tucked in his jacket and carrying a bundle of furs in the other. They would sit and talk about so many things, of his wife and her people and the winding, bustling capital of his native France. She adored his stories of Paris; she had spent most of her life sequestered away in these damnable woods that she had almost forgotten what a city looked like. She longed to go, to experience something new. She felt so useless here. She didn't even have Sarah and Rachel to look after any longer; they had since grown up with husbands and children of their own. She hadn't seen Sarah in a long time. She had moved to Boston a few months after she married and although they sent each other letters regularly it was not the same. Charlotte yearned to look upon her baby's face once more. She wondered at how her own mother - God rest her soul - had been able to cope with Charlotte moving across an entire ocean, never to see her child again. Happily, Rachel had not strayed far. She didn't know what she would have done if she had lost both of them. Mr. Potts had given his daughter a portion of his hold when she wed the Davison boy from Georgetown as part of her dowry. Their homestead was but a twenty minute walk and the tiny cabin they had built together looked not unlike the one Mr. Potts had brought her to all those years ago. Despite their early troubles, she and Rachel had grown quite close over the years. They had both gone through so much to forge the bond they now shared, and Charlotte believed that it was this early hardship that made their relationship so strong. She was the only friend she had, other than Pierre.

If she was to ask her sixteen year old self what sort of life she was meant to lead, it would have not been this one. She had always dreamt of a loving husband and a large brood of children, and while she cherished Rachel and Sarah, Charlotte wished she had had another child. One that was born from her own body. But it never happened, and Mr. Potts had seen it as a moral failing, a punishment from God. She didn't know who he blamed more: her or himself. After years of trying she remained barren. Only once did the seed managed to take root. There had been so much excitement. Even dour Mr. Potts would smile and laugh whenever he caught sight of her rounded stomach. For the first time she felt as though when he looked at her he was actually seeing her - Charlotte - and not Rebecca. But then... Whatever relationship they could have had crumbled into dust the day they lost their son.

Charlotte cradled James tight as the toddler squirmed and wiggled in her lap. Rachel sat next to her shucking corn, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Pierre. Even after all these years, Rachel still refused to forgive the Frenchman for his part in the war. She carried her grudges like a heavy stone inside her. Charlotte, however, had little choice in the matter. She had nursed the man for months, tending to him, feeding him. No amount of steeling her heart could keep her from caring about him. Charlotte laughed along to one of Pierre's wild stories, jostling James who looked about in bewilderment. Mr. Potts frowned disapprovingly at their antics. He never allowed himself to join in, and only spoke when prompted. He seemed to care little for Pierre, and yet he continued to sit at the table, listening. He had been with her when Pierre hovered between life and death, tending to him as she had with a gentleness that she had never known him to possess before. There must be some small seed of affection for him deep within his breast, for he tolerated him in ways that Charlotte had only ever seen him do with her and the children. Perhaps Mr. Potts was just as lonely as she was deep down. But Pierre was too loud, too boisterous, and too Catholic, with a wife who prayed to her own gods for Mr. Potts to ever feel comfortable in his presence.

Charlotte giggled as she brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen from beneath her cap and away from her grandson's grasping fists. Pierre patted the boy on the head, still smiling though it did not reach his eyes. He was worried about something, though what she couldn't begin to fathom. "Are you alright?" Charlotte inquired and the quick, pained smile was enough to tell her that he wasn't.

"I've heard some... troubling news," he said. "It seems that for some, the war isn't yet over."

Mr. Potts snorted in derision. "Don't be ridiculous, of course it is. It's been over and done with for nearly ten years now."

"For the whites, maybe."

Charlotte peered at him curiously. "What are you saying?"

Pierre shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced down to avoid her gaze. "Only the French and English signed that treaty; the Wabanaki never agreed to it."

"What does it matter? This land is ours."

"And theirs as well," Pierre insisted. "They do not want the English encroaching on their territory, land that had been given by the French to the English as reparations without their consent. The Wabanaki have rallied behind a Jesuit missionary, a man by the name of Father Rale. They've been attacking English settlements along the coasts of Nova Scotia and are moving down into Maine. They mean to drive you out."

"Encroaching?" Mr. Potts demanded. "We have lived here for decades. How can we possibly be encroaching? I bought and paid for this land, I built this house with my bare hands. I am not some squatter."

"A Jesuit is leading an army, you say?" Rachel broke in. The sneer on her face made her look so much like her father. "My, you'd think his order would disapprove of such things... But I wonder if this Father Rale is the only Frenchman involved in this revolt. It was a humiliating defeat for your people, after all, and I'm sure there's many a Frenchman who would love to get a little of their own back. But, of course, with the treaty in place they can do no such thing... unless they hid behind the actions of others. So, tell me, Monsieur de Villeneuve, just how exactly are the Wabanaki supplying this army? Where are they getting the guns and food and clothes if not from their long-time allies, the French?"

The lines on Pierre's face deepened and he looked so much older than she remembered. "This is a war being fought by the Wabanaki for the Wabanaki. The English have refused to recognize their sovereignty and continue to take what they want despite the Wabanaki's attempts to reach an agreement peacefully. If you're asking me the extent of French involvement, I couldn't say. I'm not a soldier anymore. They wouldn't take me even if I wanted to return to that life. But I do agree with their cause and not just because my wife is a member of the tribe. I just... I don't like that they are attacking civilian settlements. I wanted to come here to warn you of the coming danger. Your homestead is right in their path. Little Sarah has set up house in Boston, I hear. Go there, you'll be safe."

Mr. Potts nodded his head. "I thank you for the warning, but we will not be leaving. You've said they've been attacking coastal settlements, yes? We're miles from the shore, and there is not much here. Just my farm and Rachel's. There is no reason for them to come here. Besides... This is our home. I raised my children here, this is where Rebecca... No one is going to drive us away."

And with that, Mr. Potts allowed no further arguments.

* * *

Charlotte sat in her little rocking chair, absently thumbing through Defoe's  _Memoirs of a Cavalier_. She had never much enjoyed reading, preferring to spend her leisure hours with her crochet needles or pressing flowers onto paper. But she had so much free time on her hands now that she was left in want of some occupation, even if it meant  _reading_. She and Mr. Potts had spent twenty years pouring all of their hard labors into this plot of land and it had paid off. Their crop yields had greatly increased, enough so that they were able to hire workers to till the land. She had no more children to look after, there was only her and Mr. Potts now. For the first time in years she found herself idle. She remembered the early days when back-breaking drudgery had consumed every spare minute. Back then, the thought of simply lounging about with a book seemed almost blasphemous.

She heard the door swing open and her husband stomping through the keeping room as he came in from the barn, shaking off the leaves and frost that clung to his narrow shoulders. She ignored him and continued on with her story,  _Tilly's men were rugged surly fellows, their faces had an air of hardy courage, mangled with wounds and scars, their armour showed the bruises of musket bullets, and the rust of the winter storms_.

Charlotte's eyes grew heavy with sleep as Defoe rambled on about Tilly and his soldiers. It took her a moment to notice the dark shadow that had fallen over her and the sudden silence in the room. She looked up to see Mr. Potts staring down at her with a curious expression on his face. He looked lost, as though he had no idea where he was or how he came to be there. Charlotte sat up straight in her chair, staring hard at her husband. "What is it? What is the matter?" She demanded.

Whatever it was, the spell broke and he looked away embarrassed. "I just... I did not realize how white your hair had become."

Charlotte snorted; her husband had always lacked tact when it came to the female sex. Still, she was not surprised by his obliviousness. They had not slept in the same room for years and she rarely left her boudoir without her cap firmly on her head. To go without... It was improper, brazen and lewd, and yet when Charlotte sat down at her vanity that morning she could see no reason for it. What was the point? The only one who would see her with her head bared was Mr. Potts, and he was more ghost than man. "Though I would protest my hair has turned colors somewhat prematurely, it is a natural consequence of aging and I would thank you not to remind me of that again," she quipped.

"Do you remember when we first met?"

The question took Charlotte by surprise. "Of course."

"You were very young then," he mused. His eyes were distant and misty, with an aching expression etched upon his mouth. She had seen this look before, when he was on his knees praying, his Bible pressed fiercely against his chest.  _Rebecca_ , she would hear him cry,  _God... Jesus... Rebecca_. "You had your whole life ahead of you, until you found yourself chained to me."

"What has gotten in to you?" Charlotte asked. Melancholy had always clung to him like a shadow, but he had never acted quite like this before.

"I've just been thinking," he murmured. "I've been praying to God to give me all the things I desired for so long now. If I was just good enough, I thought, if I just prayed hard enough. If I purified myself and made myself right by Him... He would give me everything I have ever wanted. A family, a son, a home. That is very selfish of me, isn't it? But at the end of the day I  _am_  a selfish man." He turned to head upstairs to his bedroom; his back bowed from age and hard labor, his knuckles knobby and swollen with arthritis. He was an old man and she was an old woman and what have they done with their lives? "Goodnight, Charlotte."

"Goodnight, Oliver."

Charlotte laid in her bed that night, still wide awake and consumed with her thoughts. She curled up with her pillow and stared out the window, watching the leaves and the snowflakes dance with each other as they fell gently upon the ground. The forest looked like swaths of black ink against the midnight sky. Everything was quiet and still. She thought of Mr. Potts. She wondered if she should go to him.

Before she could make a decision a sharp rapping rang out through the house.

She was immediately on her feet and scurrying out of her bedroom, her robe thrown haphazardly over her shoulders. It could only be one person: Rachel. What had happened to cause her to come here at this time of night? Worry flooded her as all manner of ill thoughts took hold. She barely noticed when Mr. Potts stumbled from his door, in quick step behind her as they ran down the stairs.

Charlotte threw open the door and nearly fell back in surprise. It was not Rachel, nor was it her husband Benjamin. It was a group of four men, three were Indians and one was white and all of them carried rifles. She peeked around them, trying to steal a glance of Rachel's cabin that sat far in the distance. It was dark and quiet. "Pardonnez-moi, Madame," the white man said. "Nous nous sentons perdus et très affamé." At the look of confusion on their faces, he raised his hand to his mouth and patted his stomach.

"It is very late," Mr. Potts said as he pushed past Charlotte, ready to close the door in their faces.

"Nous avons besoin de votre aide," one of the Indians said and again they mimed eating.

Mr. Potts looked torn. He had never turned away someone who sought his help, and yet they both sensed that something was very wrong. These four strangers unsettled them and Pierre's dire warnings rose unbidden in their minds. "The sooner we feed them, the sooner they will leave," Mr. Potts reasoned.

Charlotte nodded. "We still have a bit of smoked ham and bread from supper, and there's plenty of cheese in the larder."

Mr. Potts moved out of the way and let them inside. Each one left their rifle by the door as they stepped across the threshold, murmuring "Merci, merci." They sat down at the table and devoured the food Charlotte laid before them with a covetousness that belied their ravenous hunger.

"Go back to bed, Mrs. Potts," Mr. Potts commanded as he set about pouring them mugs of beer himself. "I will see to our guests."

Charlotte frowned. "If you are sure."

"I am. Go."

Charlotte slowly made her way up the stairwell, shooting Mr. Potts one last look before disappearing inside her bedroom. It was so quiet downstairs, she could hear nothing through her door. Mr. Potts knew what he was doing; he was not one to court danger. She trusted that if nothing else. Charlotte moved away then, towards her bed, glancing out the window as she did so. It seemed so much brighter than it had been just a few moments ago. There was a hazy glow in the air, like the way the sky looked just before dawn. In the distance she could see a bright star resting against the fields, burning bright.

Charlotte's thoughts turned slow and sluggish as she reached out to open the window. She knew what she was seeing. She had seen it before. Her mind shied away from those horrible memories that whispered in her ear; it couldn't be happening again, it just couldn't. She pushed open the pane and the acrid smell of smoke hit her like wave. The revolting stench broke the dam and her screams swelled and flooded the house. Rachel's house was on fire! Rachel and Benjamin and little James, they were all inside! And the soldiers - she could see them now, black shadows against the blazing fire - were prowling through the fields, carrying meat and chickens under their arms.

Gunshots exploded through the house, right beneath her feet. She could feel the floorboards shake with the power of it. She knew without seeing that they had killed Mr. Potts. They would be coming for her next, if they didn't decide to simply shut her inside and light the house on fire. Without thought, without sense, Charlotte lifted her chemise and climbed onto the window ledge. She jumped and landed on the frozen ground, her ankle buckling hard against her weight. The men were already rushing through the front door, but Charlotte was up and running straight towards the line of trees, into the forest where the wolves lurked and the wind whispered of dark magic. She felt like she was running on knives, her ankle burning with each step she took. The pain felt very far away, though, like it wasn't even real. All she could see was the forest. The trees shattered and splintered as the bullets flew past her. She could hear them whizzing by. She couldn't stop, she had to keep running. They would kill her if she stopped.

It was so dark, she never saw the log until she was falling, landing face down in the dirt and snow. She laid very, very still. She could still hear the men yelling, barking orders to each other as they stole whatever they could carry. Supplies for their army. The gunshots had stopped, but she still didn't move. She didn't get up again until the world had grown quiet and the sun had started to peek over the horizon. Gingerly, she stood up. Her ankle was so swollen and stiff with pain that she could not even move it. Looking about, she spied a tall stick and grabbed hold. She would need it if she wanted to get out of these woods. She had a long walk ahead of her.

Charlotte glanced back only once, to see the still smoking remains of her home. There was nothing left for her in those empty shells, nothing but burnt corpses, twisted and blackened. She turned away, a sob wrenching through her as she clutched her walking stick, her lifeline.

* * *

_July 2, 1724_

_I have sold everything. I don't want it. There is nothing here for me any longer. Sarah cannot afford to keep me and everyone else I know is dead. I have not even heard from Monsieur de Villeneuve in the year since their deaths. I do not want to spend my days in retirement as the good Widow Potts. I could not bear it, sitting around all day with nothing to occupy my mind but haunting thoughts of my lost family. No, I have decided that I shall go to Paris. Monsieur de Villeneuve has told me so much about it. I would dearly love to see it with my own eyes. I think I shall spend the rest of my days there._

_Thank you for all of your kind letters, my dearest Eleanor._

_Your loving sister,_

_Charlotte_

Charlotte stared hard at the six little rocks lying on the ground. They were all that was left, nothing else had survived. It had all burned. Sarah had suggested taking the bodies to Georgetown, to be buried in the churchyard, but she had refused. This was where Rebecca was, this was where Charlotte and Mr. Potts had buried their son, the little babe who had never even lived. Her husband could not be with them in life, she'd be damned if she separated them in death as well.

She felt Sarah squeeze her fingers. "You're not really going to leave, are you, Mummy? Nathaniel and I would be happy if you continued to live with us. If you're worried about money or space or anything silly like that-"

"Darling," Charlotte chided, taking both of her daughter's hands in hers'. She had missed this girl dearly, but it would be selfish if she stayed. She had left her mother and sisters behind so that they might have a better life, she could do the same for Sarah. "Do you remember when you left for Boston, with Nathaniel? You wanted to start a new life, a life that was completely your own. I need to do that as well. If I stay here... I will always be reminded of what I've lost. But just because I am gone, do not think I will ever stop loving you."

When Sarah returned to Boston, Charlotte boarded a ship. She remembered her first journey across the ocean, so many years ago. She had hardly been more than a child then, but at least she had Mr. Potts and the girls with her. A family. Now she had nothing.

Charlotte looked out across the sea to watch the sun set on the Dawnland.


	12. Bound by Love

_France, 1724_

Philippe sat motionless in his chair, unthinking and lifeless. There was a darkness creeping into the edges of his vision and he wondered if it would be so horrible to simply fall into it, to allow it to swallow him whole. He felt lost, like he was adrift at sea with no hope of ever finding shore. He knew where he was; he knew these paneled walls with their little painted birds, and the old, familiar sound of clock chiming the hour. There was the sound of children laughing somewhere nearby. He heard all of this, and yet it could not penetrate the black wave that had crashed over him.

"Come back to me, Philippe."

If light had a sound, it would be her voice. The former King of Spain slowly pulled himself out of the dark mire of his own creation. Those terrible thoughts grasped at his clothes, just waiting for the chance to drag him back down into that black abyss, but he pulled himself free, crawling his way back into reality. He blinked at the woman he saw sitting before him, wondered at how long she had been waiting for him to return to the body he had left behind, the body that he found still resting comfortably in his private parlor in Versailles. Sometimes it was hard to remember that it was all in his mind. "I apologize, Aunt Melusine, I... was lost in though," he mumbled softly.

The old woman smiled kindly, patting his hand softly. She seemed far older than he remembered with her spindly, white hair buried beneath voluminous black veils and the haunted look in her eyes. But that was silly; Aunt Melusine never aged and she never died. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" She asked. "You were always prone to melancholy, even as a child, but now..."

He had never told her. He had never told anyone. But of course, Aunt Melusine knew. "I can't make the bad thoughts go away," he confessed. "I thought that if I abdicated my throne, came back home, it would get better. Nothing seems to help, nothing but music."

"Do not worry, soon you will be well enough to rule again," Aunt Melusine promised.

Philippe shook his head, but there was no use in changing her mind once she had settled on a course of action. "My son will make a fine king," he said instead. "There is so much of his mother in him. Oh, the people loved Maria, they will love him too."

There was that kindly, patronizing smile again. "I have no doubt, but there is a time for all things and it is not his time yet. You are still the King of Spain."

He said nothing to that.

Soft laughter rang out, carried on the wind. Without his black thoughts drowning him in madness, Philippe felt a stirring of curiosity at the sound. He stood up and moved towards the open window where he could see the young King of France riding beside a boy of ten, teasing him as he galloped ahead. It was hard to look at this sixteen year old child and think of him as a King, but then his own son was hardly much older. Perhaps it was because even now he still expected to see his grandfather striding down the halls, commanding his people the way that only the Sun King could. He would have thought even Death itself would have bowed on bended knee before the great Louis XIV. But in the end everyone died: his grandfather and his father and mother and his brothers and their wives. Everyone but Melusine.

"Who is that boy riding with the King?" Philippe asked. He recognized this child from somewhere. He knew that golden hair and those blue eyes that flashed hotly.

"That is your nephew, the Duke of Berry."

Of course, he could see it now. There was so much of Charles in him, it made it hard for him to look. To think of his funny, little brother lying dead in the cold, hard ground, and all that was left of him was this child, hardly more than a babe. "I should have been there... At his funeral, at his son's christening... But my wife-" he choked off, unable to say anymore.

"We have lost many these past few years," Aunt Melusine murmured softly.

"What is the boy's name?"

"Louis, after the Sun King."

That wrenched a harsh chuckle from Philippe. "Of course. We are all named either Louis or Charles or Philippe. Just once I would like to see an Adam or a Vincent."

"Or a Robert," Aunt Melusine mused. "That was my husband's name."

Philippe turned to give her a quizzical look. He knew very little of her past, or even how exactly she was related to him. His parents - even his grandfather, the King - had never divulged any information on the old woman, except to say that she was very powerful and even that was spoken of in hushed voices and averted gazes. He knew there was something not quite human about her, though what exactly he could not say.

Before he could inquire further, the door to his sitting room opened to reveal a plump little maid balancing a silver tray of hot beverages in her hands. The woman looked to be about forty, her red hair streaked through with white. "Your coffee, Madame," she said. Her accent was horrendous.

"You've employed an Englishwoman? Here in Versailles? I cannot imagine how the courtiers reacted to that," Philippe commented as the maid set to work.

"They can say what they like. I find her to be most singular," Aunt Melusine commented with a small, mischevious smile. "She had worked for the Countess of Pembroke in her younger years, before marrying and becoming the mistress of her own home in New England. I'm thinking of instating her in Meudon as the new housekeeper."

"Where did you meet her?"

"In Paris, working for the Duke of Rohan. Her talents were wasted on him."

"She seems ordinary enough."

That earned him a sharp look from the maid, but a quiet chuckle from his aunt. "Does she?" She asked with that same secretive smile he had come to know and fear. "I have some things to attend to, I will speak to you later this evening. Farewell, and do try the coffee, my dear, it is simply divine."

Philippe nodded, turning back to watch the children play. He heard the door shut behind them, leaving him once more to his own dark thoughts.

* * *

Charlotte closed the door behind her, unable to keep her eyes from flitting over to the strange, beautiful woman in front of her. When she had left her home in Maine, Charlotte had never suspected that she would end up in Versailles of all places. She had been lucky enough to land a job in the Duke of Rohan's employ, let alone in the royal palace. Charlotte did not know what she had done to draw this woman's attention, but whatever it was it certainly impressed her. She had first seen her dining with the Duke one night and nearly dropped the plate she was carrying; instead of berating her, the lady had merely laughed at her clumsiness. Charlotte had never known a woman that looked like her before. Madame Melusine towered over even the tallest man; she looked like a golden giant, her face shimmering with each turn of her pretty nose and her long blonde hair spilling down around her shoulders and trailing the floor. If she didn't know better, Charlotte would say that this was the Melusine of legend. There was something inhuman about her, a quality that no mortal woman could ever hope to achieve. And, yet, no one seemed at all amazed by her appearance. In fact, they treated her like some old woman, small and frail and helpless.

After the Duke's party, Madame Melusine had offered her a position as her personal maid. She had accepted in an instant; she wanted to know more about this mysterious creature. Just who was she? And why did she care so much about her? Charlotte was nobody of importance, no one at all.

"You look like you have something you wish to say," Madame Melusine commented.

"No, Madame."

"Come, now, you can be honest with me," she chided, linking her arm with hers. Charlotte looked about wildly, wondering what others would say. A highborn lady walking arm-in-arm with a servant through the Palace of Versailles? But the hall was empty, leaving them free from prying eyes.

"This isn't proper."

"It is proper because I say it is. Now tell me, what is on your mind?"

Swallowing, Charlotte answered. "You mentioned that you were thinking of sending me to Meudon as a housekeeper."

"Yes, I have convinced our good King to give the chateau to young Louis. It had been his mother's home before her death. It is about time he had a household of his own."

"I am not so sure that I would want to serve the Duke of Berry." She had heard the most awful rumors about the little boy. They said he was full of spite and fury, that he threw things at his tutors and tormented the servants. How could an innocent child be so cruel? He had not yet lived long enough to be so bitter. And yet, she remembered another child - a girl with long limbs and wild eyes - who would scream and rage, demanding that she be heard. Charlotte felt her heart clench painfully at the thought.

Madame Melusine stopped at that and looked down at her, staring deep into her eyes. Charlotte did not know what to name the color of her irises; they were deep and fathomless, as endless as the night sky. "My Louis has grown angry and unruly, it is true," she admitted. "But I have faith that he can be reformed. You are a very rare woman, Charlotte Potts. You understand love and sacrifice, the true beauty of those around you. Louis is in need of your guidance; he will not be able to grown into the man he could be without you. If you continue to serve me, I will give you whatever you desire. Your greatest wish will be yours."

"What are you saying?" Charlotte asked, confused. "What do you mean 'my greatest wish'? You would give me titles, wealth, whatever else I may ask for if I do as you bid?"

"If that is what you want, then yes," she smiled. "But we both know that what you wish - what you truly desire - is neither titles nor wealth. You lost a child, did you not?"

Charlotte swallowed thickly at that. How could she possibly know about that? She had kept the horrible details to herself, only divulging to those who asked that she was a widow in want of work. She could feel beads of cold sweat pricking her forehead as she stared up into those beautiful, terrible eyes. Charlotte knew then that she was no human, that the creature standing before her was the very same Melusine that Pierre had once told her about. "No man or woman has the power to give me what I want."

"Well then, it is fortunate that I am neither. Swear to me that you will serve me until I see fit to release you and I will give you your child back."

There was something in the air, something low and frightful and metallic. It smelled like lightening, electric and stinging. It felt like magic, like the wolves and the forest. She remembered how her husband used to read to her by the fire during those cold, lonely nights, of Faust and the Devil and witchcraft and God. Madame Melusine was no devil, not when she smiled at her so kindly, and even if she was... wasn't Rachel worth the price of her soul?

With a deep, shaky breath, Charlotte answered. "I will serve you."

"Then the deal is done. Your child is returned." The woman turned away then, slipping free of Charlotte's arm. "You may have the rest of the day to yourself. Return to your room and rest, you will need it." She walked away, the black silk of her mourning gown trailing behind her, leaving Charlotte to stand there and gape.

_Her room!_  Was Rachel there waiting for her? Had she been restored as Melusine had promised? Before Charlotte even knew what she was doing, she was racing through Versailles, paying no heed to the shocked and scandalized courtiers. Her heart was thrumming in her chest, it felt like it was about the explode, but she could not think of that. She could not think of anything except her daughter, her Rachel. She reached the servant's quarters, flinging open the door to her room. It was quiet and still.

"Rachel?" She whispered softly into the gloom, but there was only silence.

Rachel was gone and no magic could bring her back.

* * *

Charlotte had spent the entire day searching for Madame Melusine. She was determined to seek retribution against the cruel trick, but the mysterious woman was nowhere to be found. She felt like the biggest fool to have ever lived. Only a child believed in magic and fairies and Charlotte was far too old to be indulging in such fantasies. Charlotte wandered the labyrinthine palace for hours, her anger and rage giving her strength, until she could take no more and collapsed in her bed. Within minutes she had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

"Charlotte, wake up! You are to leave within the hour!"

With a groan, Charlotte squinted against the morning sun, looking about her in confusion. Her room was completely bare, stripped of all of her belongings. A footman stood by the door, his arms laden with a heavy trunk, and one of the maids - Simone - was shaking her shoulder. "What is going on?" She demanded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"We were given orders to prepare you for your journey," Simone explained, her mouth turning down in a confused frown. "Didn't anyone tell you? You are being sent to Meudon to take charge of the Duke's staff."

"I will not!" Charlotte replied hotly. If Melusine would not keep her end of the bargain, Charlotte saw no reason to do the same. Her stomach roiled at the thought. She felt sick; sick at her own stupidity and the madness of the situation.

"You must, it is by the King's orders."

And the King's word was law.

With an angry huff, Charlotte ripped the blankets from her bed, not bothering enough to care who saw her in her nightclothes. The footman immediately averted his eyes and scurried away, taking her trunk with him, while the maid set about helping her into her clothes. Charlotte grumbled in frustration as she pulled at the laces of her corset, wondering why she seemed to be bursting out of it. It had fit her just fine the day before, there was no reason why it would not now. "How much did you eat yesterday?" Simone asked, awed by her bloated belly. One sharp look from Charlotte sent her fleeing after the footman.

Charlotte eventually managed her way inside her corset and dressed quickly, pinning her hair up and tucking it beneath her cap. She made her way down to the servants' entrance and watched as they loaded her things onto a carriage, already hitched and ready to go. The other servants carefully avoided her gaze; they could tell by her stormy expression that she was in no mood to chatter or gossip. Charlotte would go along with this madness for now, but the minute Melusine showed her face again they were going to have  _words_.

"I am sorry if I insulted you, I did not mean it."

"It is alright, Simone," Charlotte sighed. "I am not angry at  _you_ , not really."

"I packed you dinner, it's a long journey," Simone said as she handed her a basket, its contents wrapped carefully in a kerchief. "There is smoked pork, a bit of cheese, a flask of wine, and- oh! Are you alright?"

Charlotte had peeked inside, her stomach rumbling at the thought of food. She had not yet had breakfast and found that she was starving. She felt like she hadn't eaten in weeks! But the moment the stench of pork hit her nostrils, all thought of food fled her mind as she felt herself heave and gasp. Dropping the basket with nary a thought to where it landed, Charlotte stumbled over to a hedge of roses and promptly began to vomit. What a strange, sudden illness this was! Why, she hadn't felt like this since she was...

She blanched, her hand reaching shakily towards her stomach. It was round and swollen and there was something  _moving_  beneath her palm, pushing up into her touch.

Melusine had brought back the wrong child.

She had only been six months pregnant when the babe came. It was a stillbirth - her son had never even breathed - and he was the only child she had ever conceived. She had been inconsolable for months, but she had grieved and moved on. It had been twenty years. She didn't even think about him anymore. There was nothing left of him but the tiny, white bones that lie buried in a land far across the sea, next to Rachel and Oliver and James and Benjamin and Rebecca. He had never been given a name.

But he moved, he moved  _within her_. She could feel him. He was alive.

Dear God, she had been nineteen when she lost him. She was forty years old now, how could she possibly do this? If she had failed him when she had still been young and full of life, what hope did she have?

She should have known better than to make a bargain with a fairy.


End file.
